A World Apart
by fractured-fairytale06
Summary: Detective Stella Bonasera always gets her man, and that includes the secretive career Marine Mac Taylor. With or without his help, she'll face one of her most dangerous cases yet. AU MAC/STELLA
1. More of the Same, But Different

**Author's Note:**

**Okay, so, fine… I couldn't get enough of CSI: NY. It was just too good! So I've devised this story. It's AU, obviously. I wanted to explore what would happen if Mac were on the other side of the law. If he's guilty, that is. =) To find out more, you'll just have to read on.**

**Chapter One:**

"**More of the Same, but Different"**

April in New York is gorgeous, there's no denying it. The trees in Central Park are in bloom and if you feel like taking a walk in the city, the night lights are absolutely unforgettable. If, of course, you can ignore the screaming, the cursing, the mugging, and the traffic. If you can manage that without ending up in Bellevue, you're meant to be here.

My name is Stella Bonasera, and I'm a detective with New York City's crime lab. I'm in charge of my team and they're all good people, and even better forensic scientists. I'm lucky to have them, and I like to think they enjoy having me around. Our cases are trying, but we all work hard to get them solved. Most days we enjoy our jobs, but every now and then things get hard to handle. Facing death on a daily basis isn't exactly like a weekend at the Hilton.

This morning is just like any other, and I'm rushing around my apartment looking for a shoe I could have sworn I kicked off by the door last night. I find it under my bed (of course) and grab my bag as I run out the door. Running down the stairs seems faster than praying for a speedy elevator, so that's what I do. I'm not exactly running late, but I will if some cabbie doesn't take mercy on me along with a couple of mildly illegal shortcuts.

It's two minutes before eight when I walk in the doors of the lab, daring anyone to make a comment about my less-than-timely arrival with my eyes. No one does, though, because my temper is legendary and no one has the guts. Or, you know, because I'm not late yet.

Sheldon Hawkes is the first to greet me this morning, and he does so with a shy smile and a progress report on the case that's been on his plate for two weeks now. The fingerprint he finally managed to get a subpoena for hadn't matched the one left at the scene, and he doesn't look happy. I feel sorry for the poor guy; we've all had cases that just didn't piece together like we hope.

"Sorry, Hawkes," I say, handing him the file back. "Keep looking. You'll find something."

He scoffs. "If I'm lucky."

"Don't give up."

He walks out of the office and the first thing that I notice are the files requesting my attention. But, since I'd honestly rather do dumpster duty than sit at a desk all day, I let them wait a little longer. They'll be just as urgent when I get back, so they'll keep. If I'm lucky they'll disappear and I'll never have to deal with it. Being a scientist, I don't think it's likely. That doesn't mean I won't cross my fingers.

I've been at my desk for maybe a minute when my phone rings.

"Bonasera."

"Detective, we have a body for you," the dispatcher informs me and I grab a pen and sticky note to record the address. "1700 South Avenue H. It's an abandoned warehouse. Detectives Flack and Angell are on their way there now."

"Okay, give us half an hour."

In fifteen minutes exactly, Danny, Lindsay, and I are on our way to the crime scene. Danny's better at the whole traffic thing, as opposed to me—who takes cabs everywhere—and Lindsay, whose version of traffic in Montana is a tractor and a cow. Needless to say, we let him drive without another word. It's a division of labor that suits everyone.

At nine o'clock on the dot, we arrive at the crime scene.

A couple of uniforms have it taped off from the curious public, and we walk in to find Flack and Angell staring at the body. Right off the bat, I know I have a long night ahead of me. Our victim is tied to a chair and shows obvious signs of heavy and merciless abuse. His face is a giant amalgamation of bruises that makes even me cringe, and I'm pretty confident in the cause of death as I take a longer look at the body.

His throat has a gash that goes almost from ear to ear, and I'm sure it's the only kindness that's been paid to him. When the carotid is opened, a person will bleed to death in under a minute. After what looks like hours of torture, it must have been a relief to go so quickly. I'm sure he would have preferred to not go at all, but the world doesn't always give us that alternative. I can only hope that it's some consolation to catch the killer. That's what I've believed in all my life, and that's why I do what I do.

"Any ID on him?" I ask Angell as I come to stand beside her. She nods her head, dark curls bobbing, and hands me a black leather wallet.

"James Corelli," she tells me and I look at the driver's license in my hands. The body in front of me looks nothing like the picture. "A bit of a mob connection if the rumors are to be believed."

"Mob?" I ask, but the concept is nothing new. This is New York, and it takes all kinds. "What kind of role does he play in the family circus?"

"Enforcer," Flack says. "He's gotten tagged for assault more than a few times and drugs once or twice, but any murder charges he's been brought up on have mysteriously vanished. Courtesy of a lawyer that's way out of his pay bracket."

"Family lawyer?" Danny asks, leaning behind the chair where the victim is tied to take a closer look at the ropes used to hold him.

"I can only guess," Flack responds and turns to me. "What do you think, Stella?"

"Multiple contusions and abrasions on the face. I'd be willing to guess they're other places, too," I observe from a few feet away. My eyes rest on the victim's left hand, the digits of which have been twisted at odd angles. "Three broken fingers. The wound on the neck looks like the kill shot. Sid can tell you more when we get him back to the lab."

"Looks like the killer is right handed, from the direction of the cut," Danny says from the floor. "Not that that really narrows anything down. I'm just saying."

"Thanks anyway," Angell offers.

"Stella, we've got DNA over here," Lindsay calls from several feet away, near a giant wooden desk that looks like it's seen better days. It probably came with the building.

"What kind?" I ask, starting over to her.

"Skin," she says, collecting the evidence in a tiny vial that we'll take with us back to the lab. She's kneeling down to look at the front edge of it, where a nail is sticking out of the woodwork. "Looks like blood, too."

"Nice catch."

I watch her collect the evidence and a gash in the top of the desk catches my attention. I put on a pair of latex gloves to keep my fingerprints from mixing with our killer's, and I run my finger over the laceration in the wood. It's long and triangular; if my guess is correct, I would bet it was where someone had stabbed a knife into the desk while they were waiting to use it.

Reaching for my kit, I take a cast of the marred spot of wood and find it just over two inches deep. The shape of the cast tentatively agrees with my theory of a knife, but I'll hold onto it to compare it to blade variations later. Sid will give me a good estimate on the kind of blade, and then we'll narrow it down with the cast from the desk. If nothing else is accomplished today, we'll know our murder weapon within a few hours.

-----

When noon rolls around, we're already sighing. The warehouse has been thoroughly searched, only to find nothing that would even come close to a murder weapon. Flack and Angell have separated to find the building's owners and any potential witnesses, and after three hours on the scene I've come to the conclusion that we've done all we can do here.

James Corelli's body has been transported back to the lab and we have possession of his restraints, cell phone, and wallet. Sid will get the clothes back to us when the autopsy is underway, and we'll be able to examine it for trace evidence. We'll have to look through all the blood to do it, but we'll manage. It's easy to forget how brutal mob killings are when you don't see them every day. When you catch one, though, it's hard to forget for a while.

We drive back to the lab talking about the case, comparing our evidence. I'm pleased with what we've managed to find. Lindsay's evidence seems to be the most promising, along with the fingerprints Danny collected from the chair and the desk. My cast of the desk will serve as corroborating evidence in the event that we find the actual murder weapon, and it will be just another nail in the killer's coffin. There's no such thing as too much evidence.

My first stop is Dr. Sid Hammerback when we get back to the lab. I put Lindsay on the fingerprints and Danny on the DNA, hoping we'll get something back. I drop the victim's cell phone off with Adam and beg a read-out. The lab tech eagerly accepts, and promises results within the hour. Sheldon, Flack, and Angell have gone out to inform the family of their loved ones' untimely demise. All our bases are thoroughly covered; save for mine as I walk through the autopsy doors.

Sid greets me with an enigmatic smile that only he can manage, and I return it with a smile of my own. His black reading glasses are perched on the end of his nose and he's been staring down at the body. As of yet, the thoracic cavity is unopened and I'm silently grateful. Being used to something doesn't mean you have to enjoy it. That's my philosophy on autopsies, and it's served me well so far.

"Good afternoon, Stella," he says. "Quite an early morning, I've noticed."

"Tell me about it," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "Is it too early to beg for information?"

He smiles. "Never. With the amount of blood on the body I'm pretty sure it's safe to say that the official cause of death is exsanguination, but I'll know for sure when I open him up."

"Any idea when he was killed?"

"Based on liver temperature and lividity, I think midnight or thereabouts would be your TOD. Give or take an hour or two," he says and I nod my head, adding it to the list of facts I have going in my head. Later I'll need to add them up and hope for an answer that I can take to court with me.

I stay and talk with Sid for a few minutes, gracefully bowing out when he brings out the scalpel. He understands my reluctance, though, and bids me farewell. I'm incredibly fond of Sid. He's a little like the weird uncle I never had; the kind who told crazy stories and kept lizards in his pockets.

My next base is Adam, who hands me a piece of paper almost immediately upon my entry into his little corner of the lab. My eyes catch the highlighted portions first.

"What am I looking at?" I ask and he points at the bright yellow markings.

"The same number appeared several times over the last few days, but the calls never lasted more than a minute," he says enthusiastically.

Adam is a little like a lap dog who gets excited when you praise him for catching a ball. Hyperactive, but sweet.

"Except," he emphasizes, "For the last call. It was made last night just before eleven o'clock and lasted for almost ten minutes."

"Sid said midnight was our time of death," I say and his eyes light up a little.

"Looks like our guy got set up," he says. "Is it true that he's mafia?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well, no, not really," he says. "I'm just interested."

"The rumors seem to point in that direction," I confirm and try to ignore the look on Adam's face. It's unprofessional, but it's not hurting anybody. "Flack and Angell mentioned it, but nothing's for sure. We'll pull up his rap sheet and see what kind of potential killer list the guy got started and go from there."

"Yeah, of course."

"What do I always say, Adam?" I ask because he looks like he needs a reminder.

"Never jump to conclusions?"

"Exactly," I tell him. "What are the chances that we can trace this number?"

"Pretty good if we get lucky," he says and goes back to the computer. I watch over his shoulder as he types the number into a database.

The machine whirrs and beeps until a message pops up onto the screen.

"Sorry, Stella," he says. "Disposable cell. And it has been disposed of, because I can't trace it."

"Hmm," I say but I'm thinking, _Damn. _It would have been too easy.

"Good work, Adam," I say and pat him on the shoulder. "If you manage to pull anything else off of it, you know where to find me."

"Absolutely," he says and he's back at the computer, winding his way through whatever database he can to get us a lead. He works hard, and I can only hope he knows how much I appreciate him and his work. I'm bad sometimes about taking things for granted.

A quick visit with Lindsay tells me that the partials removed from the scene are our victim's. She gives me an apologetic smile and promises to keep looking.

_Strike two_, I think and head over to Danny.

"Hey," I say as I come to stand beside him.

"Hey yourself," he says, looking into a microscope. "I've got a damn good specimen here. Blood and skin, neither of which are our victim's. It looks like the guy got caught on a nail that was sticking out from the desk; maybe a hand or an arm. My money's on the hand, though. I didn't find any hair on the sample."

Finally, a break.

"That's the best news I've heard all day," I tell him. "Any hits yet?"

"Not so far," he reports. "CODIS came up empty."

"Well, keep trying," I tell him and go to start comparing the cast I've made of the blade to possible matches before a beeping behind my back stops me.

"Holy hell, I got a hit," Danny says from behind me and I rush back to his side. Times like this are when I absolutely love my job.

"You're kidding."

"AFIS got something," he says and a picture pops up on our screen.

The man staring back at me from the computer's monitor has dark hair and light blue eyes with a severe-looking mouth and a strong jaw. His frame is broad and muscular; evidence of a lifetime of hard work. If I were considering him as anything other than a suspect, he would have had my utmost attention.

"He's a Marine. Staff Sergeant Mac Taylor."

**A/N: I know! Cruel! Is Mac a murderer? If you want to find out, hit the little button and tell me so. **


	2. Missing in Action

**Author's Note:**

**Okay, so the feedback on that first chapter was amazing. Awe-inspiring, truly. I love hearing from all of you. You make my day, no lie.**

**Oh, and everything about addresses or the Marine base is complete fiction. I've never been to New York, so I had to make it up as I go along.**

**That being said, here we go.**

**Chapter Two**

"**Missing in Action"**

Even after Mac Taylor's name is at the top of our suspect list, we can't seem to make any progress. The address that's listed as his home is on a Marine base that's several miles out of New York City: Fort Reagan. It takes the rest of the night to get through to Staff Sergeant Taylor's commanding officer, a Colonel Henry Brand. After repeating my badge number at least eight times, he agrees to give me a meeting the next day. I can't link Corelli and Taylor in my mind yet, but that's work for another day. For tonight, I'm exhausted.

-----

Morning finds Danny and me on a road trip to Fort Reagan, armed with badges and more questions than we have answers.

The trip takes a little over an hour to make even with the morning traffic, and I'm incredibly pleased because I didn't want to show up late to a meeting with the Colonel. A guard meets our car at the front gate and asks for identification. We hand him picture IDs and badges, and he confirms our nine o'clock appointment with Colonel Brand. He waves us through and we follow two armed guards to a small parking lot near the main building of the base. They nod and we're left to walk into the building alone.

"Jeez," Danny whispers to me as we cross the street, "You'd think we were terrorists or something."

My eyes flick to him. "Don't use the 'T' word. We'll never get out of here."

Immediately after entering the main building, we're required to present our identification yet again. The young woman appraises us with dark eyes and it's not hard to find curiosity there that borders on suspicion. I'm suspicious, too; does she know that her coworker beat a man mercilessly and then slit his throat? I like to believe she doesn't, but I know better than anyone that the world doesn't always happen how you want it to.

Finally, she lets us go and we follow another soldier down a hallway until he opens a large wooden door. We remain just outside the door while our escort salutes and announces our arrival. We're invited in to a mid-sized office with sturdy wooden furniture and dark blue carpet. Colonel Henry Brand is an incredibly tall man who looks as obstinate as his furniture. Gray hair is cut in the typical military fashion and bright blue eyes gaze out from dark and weathered skin. He's a tough man, I can tell, but I'm willing to venture a guess that he's fair.

"Detectives Bonasera and Messer," he says, his voice too big for the room. Taking this as his cue, the escort salutes once again and is dismissed. He leaves the office and shuts the door behind him, though I have a feeling that he's still standing on the other side of it.

"Colonel Brand, thank you for taking the time to see us on such short notice," I say and offer a hand, giving him what I hope is a welcoming smile. "I really can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

He shakes my hand and his grip is strong. I do my best to hold my own by looking him in the eye, and he seems pleased enough. He does the same with Danny, and then invites us to sit down.

"Well, it's no problem," he says. "You said this was about Mac Taylor, and I take care of my men. What can I help you with?"

"Is Staff Sergeant Taylor here today?" I ask, naturally assuming the role of the leader. Danny will back me up if necessary, or ask questions that I may not have considered.

Colonel Brand shakes his head.

"No, Mac took off on leave a few days ago," he tells us. "What is this about?"

"We found Staff Sergeant Taylor's DNA at a crime scene in New York City yesterday morning," I say and consider my options. Something tells me that an accusation of guilt isn't going to get me very far here. "We're afraid we might be looking for a second victim."

Danny shifts in his chair but he catches my meaning.

This makes the colonel obviously uncomfortable.

"DNA?" he asks. "What kind of DNA?"

"Blood and skin," I say and leave out the size of the sample. Mac Taylor's life isn't in immediate danger, at least not from the nail.

"What kind of crime scene are we talking about?" he asks and I'm unsure as to whether or not I should actually tell him. He senses my apprehension and says, "If the victim is someone I know, I could point you in the right direction."

This is true.

"His name is, _was_, James Corelli," I say and don't offer the mafia lead. As trite as it sounds, Colonel Henry Brand is on a need to know basis and he doesn't need to know.

He processes the name in his mind and comes to a conclusion.

"I can't say I know him."

"I wasn't expecting you to."

"I haven't heard from Mac in three days," he says and his voice is far more tired than it was when we walked in the office. The concern on his face is measurable, and I feel pity for the man. He cares about the soldiers under his command, and the idea that one could be in danger away from the battlefield is a trying idea. I hope I'm not the one to tell him that Taylor is actually a suspect.

"Is that when Staff Sergeant Taylor went on leave?"

He nods. "A few days ago, he lost a good friend of his," he says. "I'm not sure of the friend's name off the top of my head. They'd been to boot camp together and had stayed friends after the other guy's four years were up. Mac's a twenty-year man."

"How long is his leave?" I ask.

"Two weeks," he answered. "But I told him to let me know if he needed more time. Losing a fellow Marine is like losing family. Mac built up a lot of leave time, so I told him he was welcome to it if he decided he wanted a little more time."

"I'm very sorry that you have to find out this way," I say and I mean it. "Can you tell me Staff Sergeant Taylor's MOS?"

Danny leans over. "MOS?"

"His job."

"That's right," Colonel Brand says and gives me a tired smile. "He's an MP."

"MP?" Danny again.

"Military police," I answer and the Colonel gives me an appraising stare.

"You've got the acronyms down, Detective Bonasera," he says. "Did you serve?"

"No, sir," I answer and give him a small smirk. "Ex-boyfriend."

"Ah," he says and laughs. "That'll do it."

"What was Staff Sergeant Taylor like at work?" I ask, wishing to steer the conversation way from my personal life. Luckily for me, Colonel Brand is willing to oblige.

"Good. Very good," he says. "Dedicated. He stood for his country and the Corps, but he took his job just as seriously. A while back he busted a couple of the guys with drugs, and he had to put them all away. It killed him, but he knew it was necessary."

"The address that was listed as his on AFIS is on base," I say. "Did he live here?"

Colonel Brand shook his head. "No, Mac didn't live on base. He keeps an apartment in the city. After the whole drug thing, he was worried someone might try to get to him on base. He thought it was safer to have a place of his own."

"Do you have an address?"

"I can find it," he says and turns to his computer. After a few seconds of searching, he writes an address on a piece of paper and hands it to me. "If he's anywhere, that's where he'll be."

I'm not familiar with the address, but in New York City I'd be surprised if I was. Knowing my luck, he's been my neighbor for three years and I never noticed.

"Thanks again for your time, Colonel," I say, standing and once again offering him my hand.

"Any time," he says and shakes both our hands. "I'm sure you'll call me when you have information." He pauses. "Whatever the outcome."

I nod my assent and head for the door. Colonel Brand's standpoint is perfectly clear: Whether we find Staff Sergeant Mac Taylor to be an innocent victim or a murderer, I am to call him. I can honestly say that I respect him enough to keep up my end of the deal.

"Of course, Colonel. You have my word."

Once we're back in the city, Danny breathes a little easier. I have to admit I do, too. Being surrounded by armed guards isn't exactly the most comfortable environment in the world.

"Well, that could have gone a lot worse," he tells me as we get into the clogged traffic of the bridge. "I was expecting some version of 'A Few Good Men'. Lots of yelling, and maybe some Jack Nicholson."

"No Tom Cruise?"

"Nah," he says. "I'm not that big on him."

"Fair enough," I say. "But you're right. It could have gone a hell of a lot worse. Colonel Brand seems like a fair guy. I think he'll help."

"If he doesn't find out that Taylor is a suspect and not a potential victim," he says. "If we're lucky, he won't."

"How does pressing your luck sound?" I ask him and he looks at me with an interested smirk on his face.

"Sweetheart, danger is my middle name."

"Don't call me sweetheart, Danny."

"Sorry."

-----

Mac Taylor's apartment is on the tenth floor of an apartment building that looks much better than my own. Neither of ours has a doorman, but he's not exactly living in squalor. We get in by helping a woman walking her dogs open the door, and follow her inside. She gives us a grateful smile, but then shuffles away. We don't have to show our badges because I doubt she even cares; it's not her business. People in this city are pretty good about keeping that line neatly intact.

We work our way to the door, only to find it open a fraction of an inch. Danny's eyes meet mine, and we both reach for the weapons perched on our hips. We leave the safeties on, though, because we have no intention of killing a cleaning lady. He extends his fist to knock on the door and his voices calls out into the otherwise silent hallway.

"Mr. Taylor? NYPD! Open the door!"

We listen closer, and there's no sound coming from within. We hear a few doors crack along the hallway for snooping neighbors but the apartment in front of us is silent.

"We're coming in," Danny warns and he pushes the door open and walks through. Our guns are aimed out in front of us and we're both listening intently, waiting for any sign of movement to tell us that we're not alone in the apartment. My heart is beating hard in my chest but the anxiety is controlled; this isn't my first potentially dangerous situation and it won't be my last.

I have his back as we move throughout the apartment, clearing the scene one room at a time. It's obvious within a few minutes that we're alone and that Mac Taylor has gone. The only thing left in the closet is empty hangers and a couple Marine uniforms in black garment bags. I can't find any weapons in the bedroom or in the rest of the apartment, and I'm not really surprised. If I was on the run for murder, I would have taken weapons with me.

I meet up with Danny in the living room and he seconds my theory. Mac Taylor is long gone, and I find it highly doubtful that he'll be back any time soon. He lives a Spartan existence—his belongings are few and ruthlessly neat. It's normal for a Marine, though. They're trained this way and a sick feeling in my stomach is telling me that Mac Taylor knows how to disappear. Danny is apparently having the same thought at the same time.

"Shit," he says and I nod.

"Tell me about it."

Right then my phone rings and it's Sid.

"Bonasera."

"Stella," he starts. "I hope I'm not catching you at an inconvenient time."

"You're giving me too much credit," I mutter and he laughs. "What's up? Did you find something?"

"You could say that," he says and I put him on speakerphone so Danny can hear. "I put a name to your murder weapon, and it matched the cast you gave me yesterday afternoon."

"That's something, at least," Danny says. "We can canvas the kitchen with a black light and see if we can't find the blade."

"Oh, you're not likely to find this knife in the kitchen. Or I should hope not," he says. "It's a K-BAR. A Marine fighting knife."

Danny and I look at each other.

"Thanks, Sid," I say.

"Anytime, Detectives," he says. "Be careful. The person wielding this knife knew how to use it."

We disconnect, and the knot in my stomach isn't feeling any better. We split up, deciding we'd work faster on our own. I leave Danny to canvas the neighbors for potential information on our suspect, and I investigate the house in hopes of finding some clue of where he might be going. Being a seasoned Marine, Taylor is highly unlikely to have left anything behind as stupid as a trail of bread crumbs but I work anyway, in case that his nerves led him to make a mistake that we can cash in on.

An hour later, we're both as empty handed as we started.

"It's amazing," Danny says, leaning against the wall. "I've heard of people being oblivious to what goes on with their neighbors, but this is ridiculous."

"What is?" I ask, peeling off my latex gloves to put them in my pocket.

"Unanimous good will," he says incredulously. "I talked to five people who were home and they all said the same damn thing: reserved, kept mostly to himself, but a good guy. One woman said he helped her carry in her groceries one afternoon when her kids were running circles around her. It's not natural. For this city, at least."

"This isn't making any sense," I sigh. "We've got a dead mafia bully and an accomplished Marine who busts drug dealers and helps women carry in their groceries. Said Marine also left DNA at the scene of the murder and his apartment is apparently deserted."

"And there's no way to connect the two other than the DNA evidence at the scene," Danny adds. "Coincidentally, the murder weapon happens to be a Marine fighting knife. What would make a guy who serves his country honorably for twenty years go ape-shit and murder someone?"

"We're missing something," I agree. "And it's big."

**A/N: Since my feedback was so great, I decided to put this up a little early. The stage is set for Mac's appearance, so get ready. How is it so far?**


	3. Chance Encounters of a Questionable Kind

**Author's Note:**

**AH! Here it is! One of the moments that I've enjoyed building up to. For a little more explanation about the characters, check the author's note at the end of the chapter. And, of course, if you have any questions you're more than welcome to ask them.**

**On with the show!**

**Chapter Three**

"**Chance Encounter of the Questionable Kind"**

The lab is empty when I leave it, which isn't so unusual. I've been accused of being a workaholic more than one time in my life and I expect to hear it a few more hundred times before I put in for retirement. It's something that I wear as some ridiculous badge of honor and won't surrender for anything in the world; just ask my laundry list of ex-boyfriends.

The answers that Danny and I so desperately wanted weren't waiting for us at the lab when we returned. Sid had a completed autopsy report that didn't tell us anything we didn't already know. Every fingerprint recovered from the scene belonged to the victim. The only break in the case was the discovery of Mac Taylor's DNA, but even that's raised more questions than it's answered. Adam had apologetically confessed that nothing new on the cell phone had made itself apparent. So, unable to accomplish anything else for the time being, I sent everyone home to get some rest. We'll start fresh tomorrow morning but until then, we're stumped.

This is the fact that bothers me when I step outside the lab to hail a cab. I hate not being able to figure something out, even though I realize that I'm nowhere near omniscient. Sid had pointed that out to me on more than one occasion and the rest of the team is usually quick to follow. There's something about this case, though, that's under my skin. Sleep is virtually impossible when a case like this one is in the way, so I know exactly what I have to do. I instruct the cabbie to take me to the crime scene.

He drops me off with a confused glance but takes my fare regardless of what he thinks I'll be doing in an abandoned warehouse covered in crime scene tape after dark. I admit it seemed like a better idea when it was first thought of, but there's no going back now. I watch him drive off and I start to wonder if I'll be able to get another cab when I want to leave. It doesn't matter now, though, so I check my cell phone to make sure it's charged—which it is—and I check my weapon. It's loaded but the safety is on. My handcuffs and badge are tucked into the waistband of my slacks where they always are. I'm as safe as I'm going to get under the circumstances, so there's no use putting it off.

Crawling under the crime scene tape is easy enough, but finding the light switch proves to be a much harder task. No self-respecting police officer, woman or no, walks into a dark building to have a look around and I'm no different. I'm not about to feel my way through a crime scene in the dark. I find the light switch a few feet away from the doorway and flip it on, fluorescent lights scalding my eyes as they flick on one by one.

The first thing to catch my eye is the blood stain still on the concrete floor. It was left over from this morning, and a cleanup crew will come by eventually to dispose of it. The desk is exactly where we left it. The chair is gone—taken back to the lab for processing—but the remainder of the crime scene is exactly as we left it this morning.

My eyes drift around the building, the knowledge that I'm missing something huge pricking at me until I'm ready to scream. My instincts have always been trustworthy and it's unlikely that they're wrong this time. I don't see anything I didn't this morning until a large shadow at the top of the building catches my eye. It's up near the ceiling, and is barely visible in the glaring lights. This morning, when we were operating under the daylight, we wouldn't have seen the small scaffold at all.

Convinced this as good a start as any, I walk toward the back of the building. A retractable ladder is connected to the landing, but even in my heels I find myself unable to reach it. I look around for something to pull it down with but the closest thing I can find to something worth using is a rusted old curtain rod that's probably seen as much as the desk and the warehouse combined. It's just long enough, though, and I use it to pull the ladder low enough for me to reach it on my own. It's creaky and covered in rust, but I test it out and I'm relatively certain it will hold my weight. I'm just lucky I skipped breakfast.

I climb the twenty feet or so of ladder and though I'm not afraid of heights, standing on the scaffold is probably not the most comfortable experience I've ever had. My anxiety is quickly suffocated, however, when a glint of silver appears in the corner of my eye. There, at the far end of the landing, is a knife with a blade longer than my hand. It's covered in blood and I know that I'm looking at my murder weapon. Taylor must have thrown it up on the landing when he took off. He must have been in a hurry, I decide. Maybe someone interrupted him and he couldn't be seen with the knife.

I reach for my phone and put it into camera mode, knowing that without photographic proof of the scene the defense could take our forensic testimony and tear it to shreds. My camera phone isn't exactly a high-quality camera, but it's good enough to pass in front of a jury. I take a few various shots of the knife and its position before I decide that the pictures I've taken will make do under the circumstances.

I reach for the latex gloves I keep in my pocket and I pull out my last pair alongside the plastic evidence bag I'd stashed in the off-chance that I managed to find what I was looking for. I consider myself incredibly lucky that I did, and I stash the knife in the evidence bag. I seal the bag and wrap the spare plastic around the knife before tucking it inside the pocket of my blazer. My plan is to call a cab and get back to the lab so I can enter it into evidence. We'll be able to analyze it in the morning. I'm not sure what good it will do if we still can't find Mac Taylor, but I don't really want to think about that at the moment. For right now, I'm happy that I've managed to accomplish something in what started off an uneventful day.

-----

I watch her enter the building and I can't help but wonder what the hell she's doing here. She has a dancer's body; tall and lithe with gentle curves in all the right places. Her curly hair bobs when she walks and I find myself temporarily transfixed by the sight. Whoever she is, she sure as hell doesn't belong in this neighborhood. If anyone other than me had been watching the front of this building she'd be in a lot of trouble. Depending on my mood and what she's doing here at ten o'clock at night, she might still be.

I see the crime scene tape, though, and I know that I might be too late to accomplish what I need to do here. If there's a chance, though, I have to risk it. The stakes are high and I can't afford to make any mistakes. So I move closer, my footsteps completely silent on the concrete, and watch her as she grapples with the darkness that consumes the building. She finds the lights after a few seconds, though, and I watch as she studies the large red stain on the floor.

This makes me frown. I don't remember that being there last night, but my temper was kind of high so I guess I wouldn't.

I hear clattering on the opposite side of the building and I peek around the doorway to eye her as she struggles with the ladder of a rickety scaffold near the ceiling. She manages to use something to pull the ladder completely down and she climbs up. I have no idea what she intends to find up there, but she seems pretty intent to accomplish her goal. Who am I to stand in her way? I'll just let her finish whatever she's doing and wait for her to leave before I go on with my business.

She's kneeling down to look at something when I start to wonder if I should be a little more concerned about her presence here. When she pulls the knife off the floor of the scaffold my stomach drops. I haven't the slightest idea how it got there, but my initial shock subsides only to be replaced by cold objectivity. There's a feeling in my gut that tells me something is seriously messed up here but I'm going to have to get rid of the dancer, if that's what she is, before I can figure out what it is that's gone wrong.

I'm able to move across the large room without her noticing; she's too consumed in whatever she's doing with my knife. I stand under the landing so that she can't see me, and it's just a minute before I hear her coming back down the steps. I see her shoes before I see her face, but seconds after stepping off the ladder she's eyeing me with a mixture of shock and suspicion.

"I saw the lights on," I say, sliding smoothly into a lie, "I thought I'd see who was over here. You know this is a crime scene, right?"

She blinks at me with wide green eyes.

"Mac Taylor?"

This time, it's my turn to experience a particularly raw bolt of shock.

"How do you know my name?" I ask, thoroughly confused. She's eyeing my right hand, and I turn the jagged cut on my palm away from her only to give her a better view of the scabs on my knuckles. Jimmy Corelli had a harder face than I gave him credit for.

"I know you're a murderer."

This comment makes me laugh.

"I'm no murderer. Not yet, anyway," I say and marvel at the unmistakable alarm on her face. My words make her stiffen and the line of her mouth tightens.

"Calm down," I say, amused. "I wasn't talking about you."

"Was that a confession?" she asks and I tilt my head.

"Depends on the crime."

"The murder of James Corelli," she answers and I can see very clearly that she's not kidding. Ignoring my slight moment of confusion, I file the piece of information away to think about later, when my entire objective isn't on the line. It's then that I catch the glimmer of metal on her hip and my eyes register the gold shield.

She's a cop.

"Aren't cops supposed to have backup?" I ask.

Her poker face is infallible. "How do you know I don't?"

"You would have cuffed me already," I reply and I can see the flicker of doubt in her eyes. "While we're on the subject, you can start looking for someone else to take the fall for Jimmy. If someone offed him, it wasn't me."

"So it's not your DNA that we found or your knife that slit his throat?" she says sarcastically and I can tell that she means business. It's no comfort whatsoever to find that I'm her number one fall guy.

"If it is, it just proves that I was here," I say, hoping to buy myself enough time to figure out what I'm going to do. "It doesn't prove that I killed him."

"Yeah, well, we'll see what the jury thinks about that," she says and pulls a pair of cuffs off the waistband of her black slacks.

I raise an eyebrow. "You don't think you're taking me in by yourself, do you?"

"That was the plan."

"Think of a better one," I say and the temper that flares in her eyes turns the previously sea foam green to a color that's closer to emerald. It would have been captivating if she hadn't been intending to book me for murder.

"I've got almost a foot and a good fifty pounds on you," I say, making no attempt to hide my gaze as it travels over her body. "If you think you can pull this off on your own, you're sadly mistaken."

"Unless I'm better with handcuffs than you give me credit for."

I barely hide my surprise, or my amusement.

"Well played," I say. "You distracted me for a second, but it's not long enough to do what you want to. Better luck next time."

She moves quickly, and I'm lucky to catch her wrist when I do. A second too slow on my part, and she would have had me. I move in time, though, and her attempt glances off my wrist. While she's working on getting her arm free I reach for the badge at her hip and delight in the momentary flash of olive-toned skin when her shirt lifts up an inch or two. In another place or time, this might have been a different kind of hello. Instead, I twist her arm gently behind her back so that she's doubled over. She grunts in pain or annoyance, I'm not sure, and I open the black leather billfold.

"Well, Stella Bonasera," I say, catching her name. It fits her. "This has been fun, but I'm afraid I have to get going."

I slap the cuff she attempted to place me in on her wrist and fasten it just tight enough to make sure she doesn't slip out. Her wrists are delicate in my hand and I have no intention of bruising them.

"Go to hell," she seethes and I can't help myself; I laugh.

"Maybe some day."

I release her arm from behind her back only to pull it up over her head and fasten the other side of the cuff to the ladder a few inches away. She kicks out at me and her heel catches me in the chest. I stumble back and drop her badge, my hand tenderly rubbing the bruise I'm sure is going to appear overnight. This time, when I look at her, I'm not so amused. The cop packed one hell of a kick. Half of the men in my platoon wouldn't have winded me so well.

"I was going to leave the lights on when I left," I warn, my voice low and threatening. "I think I changed my mind."

The fear in her eyes is temporary but unmistakable. I know that if I turn off the lights the chances of her getting out of here in one piece are slim to none. With the lights on and the crime scene tape on the door, whoever might have been planning to use this place for any kind of business will move their activities elsewhere. I have no intention of harming her, so I decide against leaving her in the dark. This way she'll have a fighting chance.

"Pleasure meeting you," I say and give her one last glance. "Though I don't mind saying I hope it doesn't happen again. Best of luck."

I turn away and start toward the door, expecting to hear her calling for backup or at least yelling at me. A woman cursing at me is something I've learned to tune out, so I must have missed something important when I ignored her. I reach the door in a few seconds and wait for the sirens to approach. Instead I hear a sudden gunshot, and the highly identifiable sound of a bullet whizzing past my ear scares the hell out of me. When I turn back to her, the rage is written all over her face and the revolver she holds in her free hand is trained on my face.

"Freeze, Taylor, or the next round goes between your eyes," she orders and there's no doubt in my mind that she's serious. Instead of following orders I slip out the door and hear another gunshot that goes into the tin siding of the building. Then I hear the cursing as I'm walking away from the building. I'm sure the sound of gunshots will draw some attention, so I'll wait out of sight until someone comes to get her. If no one shows up in thirty minutes, I'll place an anonymous call.

I kneel down in the shadows and wait, wondering on this strange new development in a plan that was complicated enough as it is. I don't know what worries me more: the fact that she knows how to handle her weapon, or the fact that she's more than willing to aim it at me.

**A/N: As promised, here's a little background information: First of all, the Mac in this story isn't quite the same as the Mac from the show. (Obviously.) This Mac didn't live through the tragedy of losing his wife, and didn't have the comfort of Stella's friendship. So, in my mind, he would have been much more reckless and single-minded. As for Stella, I think she would be much more fiercely independent without having Mac to lean on. I like to think that they're the same people deep down, though, so I hope to reflect some solidity in who they are as individuals.**

**What do you think? Please let me know. If you have any comments or ideas, I would absolutely love to hear them. **


	4. If I Never See Your Face Again

**Author's Note:**

**I don't really have anything to note, guys. Sorry. =)**

**Keep telling me what you think!**

**Chapter Four**

"**If I Never See Your Face Again"**

The gun is shaking in my hands and I feel tears stinging the backs of my eyes. Like hell, though, am I going to give that bastard the pleasure of making me cry. Temper laced with downright panic is coursing through me and I curse at him in Greek because it's easier than admitting that I'm terrified of what could happen if someone finds me handcuffed and alone. It wouldn't be an issue if I'd remembered to bring the keys to my set with me. If my memory serves, they're in a drawer of my desk.

I holster my weapon and reach for the cell phone that I'd miraculously brought with me. The relief that washes over me is staggering when I see that I actually have reception. The debate that takes over then is who I'm going to call. If it's Danny or Lindsay the whole lab will know in five minutes that the bastard got the better of me and left me for dead. Don't get me wrong, I trust them with anything work-related. This is pride-related, though, and that rules them out. Hawkes is an option, but he lives across the city and wouldn't get here very fast. The idea of calling Sid or Adam is laughable.

That leaves one person.

Flack answers on the fourth ring and I try to keep the panic licking at me out of my voice.

"Flack," he says and I clear my throat because the words aren't coming out like I want them to. "Stella? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me," I finally manage. "Uh, I need you to come get me."

He pauses. "Sure. Where are you at?"

"The crime scene," I say, "The warehouse from this morning."

"Why are you there by yourself?" he asks and I don't really have an answer.

"I'll explain it all later," I promise. "And bring the keys to your handcuffs."

He stifles a laugh and disconnects the call.

He's coming to get me, though, so that makes me feel better. My arm is losing circulation from being above my heart for too long, though, and I can't even imagine the ache I'm going to have tomorrow morning. Something tells me, though, that the pain is going to be mostly psychological. Dignity is one thing I have in spades, and tonight it's been seriously bruised. If it's the last thing I do on this earth, I'm going to make sure Mac Taylor goes away. For life.

Fifteen minutes later I see headlights and I hear a car door slam. I'm worried until I see Flack duck under the crime scene tape. He's holding his keys in his hand and an incredibly amused expression on his face.

"If that's a smirk, you're dead to me," I warn as he approaches and step aside so he can reach the other side of the cuffs.

"I would never laugh at this," he says and releases me. "Unless you did it to yourself. In that case, it's pretty funny."

"Give me a little credit," I say and rub the raw circle on my wrist. "I didn't do it to myself. I had help."

Flack looks around. "Who?"

"That son of a bitch Mac Taylor," I say through my teeth and I feel like putting another few rounds in something. "He thought it would be funny to leave me here and see who showed up first."

"Mac Taylor?" he asks as we walk out of the warehouse. "The Marine? Hawkes said you guys found his DNA on the nail."

"One and the same," I confirm and scan my eyes around the neighborhood. I don't see any sign of him, though, and I know that he's taken off somewhere. I'll find him, though. Science always trumps brute force.

We get into Flack's car and he looks over at me.

"You think this is our guy?"

"His knuckles look like they'd been sent through a wood chipper," I say, remembering his hands. "And he's got a cut on his palm that would match what we found on the nail. He either killed Jimmy Corelli or went ten rounds with a concrete wall."

"Then why are you still here?" he asks me and I'm not sure how to answer. "Don't get me wrong, Stella; you're good. You're damn good. But he had you handcuffed to a ladder and alone in an empty warehouse. Why didn't he kill you? It's obvious after Corelli that he doesn't have any qualms about murder."

I'd been asking myself the same question since I'd hung up the phone with him. And the truth was that I didn't have an answer. By all means he should have killed me. I had a gun, but he didn't know that judging by the look on his face when I fired at him. Unwillingly, my brain called forth his proclamation of innocence. How could I believe him, though, with all the evidence against him? He even returned to the scene of the crime, for God's sake. There's no way he's innocent. At least that's what all my science is telling me.

"How did it go with Corelli's family?" I ask, changing the subject and Flack takes the hint.

"Left behind grieving parents and three sisters, the youngest of which he's putting through college," he says. "Mafia or not, he cared about his family and they're broken up. They can't imagine anyone who'd want to hurt Jimmy."

"I'm sure his victims could."

"Then where does this Taylor guy factor in?" he asks me. "As far as any of us can tell, they're not connected in anything other than his murder."

"I have no idea, Flack," I say truthfully. "Not a single one."

"Come on," he says and starts up the engine of the car. "I'll take you home."

Home sounds like a good idea.

-----

I watch them drive away and I rest a little easier knowing that it isn't one of Benevuto's crew that finds her. Locking her up probably wasn't my most rational idea, but anything else and she would have ruined everything I'd worked so hard to get. I hadn't planned on having a cop on my trail with good instincts and a brain to match. It doesn't help that she has great eyes and skin that I want to run my hands over. The distraction factor in dealing with her is more than I can afford, so I watch her drive off and try to decide what I'm going to do about her.

I don't have an answer, but I know who will.

His phone rings twice before he picks up.

"Mac, you'd better have a damn good explanation for this," he says and I don't kid myself that the anger is undeserved.

"Sorry, Colonel," I say. "You weren't supposed to figure it out so soon."

"Oh, I didn't figure it out at all," he responds. "You have NYPD to thank for that."

"Don't tell me," I say and run my hand over my face. "Tall brunette with a temper?"

"I can't say I saw the temper firsthand," he says. "But I have no doubt whatsoever that you can inspire that kind of effect in a woman."

Colonel Brand is a good friend of mine, has been for years, and I have some sense of security in knowing that he has my back if I need him. I haven't told him what I was doing when I put in for leave after Nate died, but I'm sure he had some idea and kept his mouth shut anyway. I hadn't planned on having attention this soon in the game, though. It was plain bad luck that Jimmy had managed to get himself killed the same night I beat the hell out of him.

"I need her out of my way, sir," I say honestly. "And I don't think she's giving up that easily."

"You're probably right."

"I need your help."

"What do you want me to do?" he asks me. "Bury her in paperwork?"

"I need everything on her that you can get," I respond. "Parents, school, personal history, professional history, everything. Anything you can get your hands on."

"What are you going to do, Mac?" he asks. "Blackmail her?"

"If I think that will get me anywhere, yes," I reply and I hear laughter on the other end of the line. "This is too big to get sidelined by a nosy cop. If she gets in the way at the wrong time, we're both dead."

I hear him sigh and I know I've won.

"Yeah, fine," he says. "Give me an hour."

-----

After six hours of sleep, I still feel exhausted and lethargic. My shoulder is sore and my wrist isn't much better. I reach for the alarm clock, ready to start my day, when I realize that the alarm clock isn't ringing. I look at the time, and it's only six. The sun isn't even peeking through the curtains yet. Something else pulled me out of sleep, but I don't know what it is. I have a feeling that it's my shoulder so I try and go back to sleep until I realize that the air feels different. The smell of coffee drifts to me and my head picks up. Had I set the timer last night? I don't remember.

I crawl out of bed and my bare feet touch the cool hardwood floor. I tip-toe out of my bedroom and head for the kitchen, following the smell of coffee wherever it wants to lead me. It takes me a moment to register the fact that Mac Taylor is leaning against the counter and drinking out of my favorite coffee mug. When I do, I'm too shocked to scream. My hand goes to my hip only to feel warm silk instead of cold steel.

"You're not packing? I'm surprised," he says and sets the cup down. "I thought a woman like you would go to bed with one."

It doesn't occur to me that the purple nightgown is all I'm wearing, but even if it had I wouldn't have cared. The only thing on my mind is getting my gun and getting it _now_. I run out of the kitchen and it's exactly where I left it last night as I came in the door. I pick it up and instantly turn the safety off, preparing to run back into the kitchen and empty the magazine at him.

I go back to find him still leaning against the counter and looking completely at ease despite the fact that he has a gun aimed at his chest with an extremely mad woman behind it. The fact that he's so calm invading my home pisses me off even more. Ever since Frankie, I've made an effort to keep my home a sanctuary and not the prison he made it into. All that is ruined now, I think to myself. I'll never get it back.

"Give me one reason," I seethe, "One good reason I shouldn't shoot you where you stand."

"I could think of several," he tells me, "The first of which being that there are no bullets in that gun." My eyes widen as he holds up the clip from my pistol. "I didn't want a repeat of last night before we had a chance to talk."

I check my weapon and I realize that he's right; the clip is missing.

"You son of a bitch," I seethe and want nothing more than to hurl the gun at him. The more damage, the better.

"You're angry," he observes flippantly as though I had no reason to be.

"You handcuffed me to a ladder and left me for dead!" I yell. "What did you think would happen? Was I supposed to thank you instead?"

"I didn't leave you for dead," he says adamantly. "I hung around until the tall cop came and picked you up. I wasn't just going to leave you in that neighborhood." He pauses and narrows his eyes at me. "And you _shot _at me!"

"What would you have me do?" I ask. "You're a killer. I couldn't just let you go."

"Yeah, well, neither could I," he says and I realize that we're at an impasse.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Just to talk."

"I can't think of anything to talk about," I say, lowering my aim from his chest. "Unless you've come back to finish what you started."

"What did I start?"

"You left me alive," I say, giving into the cold shiver of apprehension running down my spine. "Did you change your mind and decide to tie up your loose ends?"

He grimaces. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"Then why are you here?" I ask.

"You left this last night," he says and pulls something small out of the pocket of the brown leather jacket he's wearing. I take it tentatively and realize that it's my badge. I feel like an idiot, but in my defense I was otherwise occupied last night.

"How kind of you," I say sarcastically. "But how the hell did you find me? How did you get in?"

"I have connections that told me where to find you," he says. "And I came up the fire escape."

"Seven stories?"

"I never said it was easy."

"Just tell me what you want and leave," I say, tiring of his game. "I'll wait until you're gone to call the cops."

"Is that a white flag?" he asks and I can feel the amused look on his face before I actually see it. I want nothing else than to smack the hell out of him.

"No. It's a time-out."

"I'll take what I can get," he says and crosses his arms over his chest. "We have something to trade."

I raise an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"I'm counting on it," he says. "Tell me what you know about Kevin La Salle."

My blood runs cold.

"What do you know about Kevin La Salle?" I ask, intensely curious about how this man seems intent to link himself to everyone that he shouldn't. Nothing about him makes sense, but here he is.

"I know he's a sexual sadist," he starts and his eyes go dark. "I know all his victims end up recanting. The ones that survive, anyway. From what I understand, death is a release after all he's done to you."

It's all true. I've been trying to put Kevin La Salle away for years now, but his victims have a tendency to disappear. One minute they're in my office, telling me how their lives have changed forever at the hands of this animal, and then they're gone… maybe we find their bodies, maybe we don't. The things he's done… Frankie was a kindergarten teacher compared to the hell La Salle puts his victims through.

"What are you proposing?" I hear myself ask and I can hardly believe the sound. I'm making deals with a killer.

"I need you to stop chasing me," he says pointedly. "You could get yourself killed and I won't be held responsible for getting a cop murdered. I don't particularly care to see you end up dead, either."

"Right," I say, scoffing. "I'm just supposed to let you go free after torturing and killing a man. All in hopes that you'll give me some information?"

"Jimmy Corelli got what he deserved."

"So you admit it, then?"

"To torturing him, yes," he says solemnly. "Not to killing him."

I stare. "Are you serious? How can you expect me to believe that?"

"Because I'm going to prove it," he informs me and turns to get the coffee mug he left on the counter a few minutes before. He pours out the coffee left in it and walks over to me, arm extended. "Compare my fingerprints to the ones you get off the knife. They won't match."

"And if they do?" I ask, taking the mug from him.

"They won't."

"How are you involved in all this?" I ask him. "If you didn't kill Corelli, why was your knife the murder weapon?"

"Who says it's my knife?"

"What else would you come back for?" I ask and immediately the look on his face tells me that I've won this particular exchange. "How are you connected to these people? Why are you doing this?"

I watch his jaw clench.

"That's not important."

"I think it's the only thing that is," I exclaim. "How am I supposed to believe that you didn't kill Corelli or that you'll deliver La Salle if I don't have a clue what you're even doing with them?"

"It's called trust," he says matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I know," I say. "And you haven't earned it."

"This isn't just about you," he says and I feel like hitting him again. "There are bigger things at stake and I'm not going to stand by and let you ruin them. You can take what I have to give you and we'll both win or you can be a horse's ass and keep getting in my way. Take it or leave it, because I'm not quitting."

"You've got to give me something," I say and my voice is almost yelling. "I can't just take you at your word because it means less than nothing to me right now. I deal with _proof. _If you can't give me that, then we're done here."

"If I give this to you, you'll stay out of my way?" he asks suspiciously. "You'll let me handle this on my own?"

"Providing the proof is solid and you're not the one that took a knife to Jimmy Corelli's throat, I can promise not to bring you in," I answer. "But I'm not laying off. I'll help."

His eyes widen. "You're kidding."

"Afraid not," I answer and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't amused at the shocked look on his face. "I have exponentially more resources than you do, and besides, this way I can ensure my investment."

Not to mention he'll have to tell me what he's doing.

"I'm not looking for a partner."

"Too bad," I say, putting my hands on my hips. "You've got one."

He grimaces. "You're going to make me regret this, aren't you?"

"Only one way to find out."


	5. The Ties That Bind

**Author's Note:**

**AH! You guys are so amazing… Really and truly. Thanks so much to all of you who are reading and reviewing, and a special thanks to those of you who are catching my mistakes. lol Lord knows I need all the help I can get. I welcome all your opinions and I can't wait to hear more of them.**

**Chapter Five**

"**The Ties That Bind"**

An hour later I've let Mac out of my apartment (through the front door this time) and I'm sitting on the couch, wondering what the hell I think I'm doing. Playing Bonnie and Clyde with a suspected killer isn't the smartest thing I've ever done despite my growing conviction of his innocence. He didn't look too happy about the arrangement either, but it had seemed like a good idea when it was still in my head. It's too late to take it back now, even if I wanted to. And I don't.

The only good thing to come out of this morning is that now I'm much more convinced that he's not the one that killed Corelli. For a guilty man, he was going out of his way to convince me otherwise. And, if I'm being honest with myself, he hasn't hurt me. He's hurt my pride and pissed me off, but that's the least of my worries. The mug he'd lifted from my kitchen is sitting in a plastic bag, waiting to be fingerprinted. Staring at it, my instincts are screaming that he's not going to be the one I put in prison.

I don't know what this sudden change of my mind means or if it's just undeniable proof that I've lost my mind completely, but something big is going on and I just can't wrap my head around it. Maybe I don't know, but Mac Taylor does and I'm going to find out if I have to beat it out of him.

Ooh. Poor choice of words.

Unfortunately, the real world is waiting for me outside my door no matter how much I'd rather stay in and ponder this new set of circumstances. The lab needs me there and now that I'd down one suspect, I have the real killer to catch. Even if this ends up being the stupidest idea of my life, I'll have Kevin La Salle to show for it. I have to wonder how he knew I wanted La Salle, but that's a question for another day.

My early-morning altercation put me a bit behind schedule, so I rush through my shower and throw on the first outfit that I get my hands on without so much as checking to see if I match. My karma must be better than I thought, because a cab picks me up barely five seconds after sticking my arm in the air. I thank him graciously and he nods his head, yanking the yellow beast of a car back into the driving lane. I hold on for dear life and make a mental note to tip him generously for speeding.

Almost unfathomably I make it into the lab before half of the team. Hawkes is at his table, going over a blood-stained shirt that I recognize as being Jimmy Corelli's. I poke my head in the door to tell him good morning, and he returns the gesture.

"I heard you ran into some trouble last night," he tells me and I cock my head in confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

"Something about handcuffs," he says and I detect the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks despite the amused smirk he's wearing.

"I'm going to kill Flack."

"Here's your chance," he says, nodding in the direction of the hallway. Flack is standing in the doorway, his hair still rumpled from a night's sleep. I narrow my eyes at him and he looks back at me, confused, until realization dawns upon his features. I see him backpedaling almost at light speed.

"Hawkes," he swears. "You've got a big mouth."

"And to think," I say sarcastically, venom dripping off of every word. "I called you because I thought I could trust you not to say anything."

"You didn't tell me that! You didn't say I wasn't allowed to tell anybody."

"I thought it was implied!"

"Yeah, well, it wasn't," he says and his baby blue eyes are staring down at me. "I'm sorry, okay? It was funny."

I stare at him, arms crossed.

"Okay, funny's the wrong word," he says and I see him backpedaling again. "Entertaining? No! Uh… well, whatever. I'm sorry, Stella. I really am."

"You're just sorry you got caught," I say, trying to keep the smile out of my voice.

"Is that not allowed either?"

"I can make an exception," I say and turn back to Hawkes, who's watching our exchange with no small amount of amusement. It takes just a moment for us to shift back to work mode. "Have you gotten any trace off of our victim's clothes?"

He shakes his head. "It's significantly harder with all this blood."

"Next time I'll have the killer label it for you."

He smirks. "Funny."

"I do what I can," I joke. "Keep on it. You know where to find me."

"Will do."

I retreat to my office and grimace at all the paperwork that hasn't disappeared in the last few days. If my case load weren't as demanding—or as _weird_—I would have no choice but to sit down and finish it. Luckily this seems to be the strangest case of my career and it demands the utmost attention. I have dozens of things putting a request on my time today, not to mention the aspects of my life that are no longer public domain. My unsteady alliance with Mac Taylor being one of them. A big one.

I'm staring out the window, thinking, when Lindsay knocks on my door. I pull my attention out of my thoughts and give the woman a smile. She returns it with her usual fervor and I can't help but think how much I like having her around. She can make me smile easier than most people, even if I have the occasional conflict with her naïveté. She's an incredibly good person and so strong when you least expect it of her; truth be told, I admire her for that.

"Hey," she says and steps a little further into my office. "You were glaring at the window. Is something wrong?"

I shake my head an offer an unassuming smile.

"No, of course not," I say. "But I do have something important for you to do. Double rush."

"Okay," she says and takes the two evidence bags that I offer her. One is the knife and the other is my coffee cup. "I need you to fingerprint both of these and compare what you find."

"Is this our murder weapon?" she asks, staring at the large knife.

"It looks like it."

"What about this?" she asks, holding up the coffee cup to inspect it.

"Control sample," I explain vaguely and she knows when to take a hint.

"Okay. I'll get right on this."

"Thanks, Lindsay," I say and she nods as she walks out of the office. I think she's gone until she pokes her head back through the door.

"Is it true about the handcuffs?"

My mouth drops open. "I'm going to kill Flack."

"Flack knew?" she asks, amazed. "I heard it from Sheldon."

"Tell them they're both fired."

-----

Two hours go by before Lindsay and Danny rush back into my office, out of breath and excited.

"Stella," Danny says and I look up. "You've got to come see this."

Lindsay nods. "You won't believe it."

Dread hits me hard.

"What is it?"

"You have to see it for yourself," Lindsay says and I follow them out of the office, wondering what they're going to show me. I realize that I should be more excited than I am; whatever they're about to show me, there's a good chance I'll have the name of my killer. I hadn't realized that I was still deeply afraid that it was our original suspect until I had every chance to see his name sitting on their screen.

When I follow them back into the smaller corner of the lab, I realize that my fears are unfounded. It's not Taylor's picture that's plastered on the screen; in fact there's no picture at all. The only thing occupying the screen is a list of case numbers.

"What is this?" I ask, scanning my eyes over it.

"The fingerprints that we got off the knife got hits on twelve unsolved cases spanning fifteen years. The most recent of which, not including James Corelli, was two weeks ago," Lindsay tells me enthusiastically. "No name was ever put on them, but the suspect pool was too wide on all of them to be able to legally narrow it down. Of the twelve case files, seven of them are for murder. Two are for rape, and three are 'wanted for questioning' on other cases."

I blink. It's unbelievable.

"But they didn't match the prints from the coffee cup?" I ask breathlessly.

"Nope," Danny answers. "Not even so much as two points were the same between the two."

"So what is this?" I ask, mildly relieved, "A serial killer?"

"If it is, he's a weird one," Danny informs me. "The victims are of both sexes, several different races, but all within the age range of twenty to forty. Occupations range from prostitute to stock broker. Even the MO's are different; gunshot wound for one, stabbing for another, and three are strangling victims. The only thing that ties most of these victims is their killer."

"Somehow, he must have been able to go without ever having been entered into the system," Lindsay adds. "For anything. There's no record of him anywhere, except for a stack of unsolved cases."

"Unbelievable," I mutter and I have no idea what to do with this information. I don't kid myself that it has nothing to do with the Marine who'd been waiting for me in my kitchen this morning. Somehow, some way, Mac Taylor is involved with a man who's been killing for years and eluding capture. I have to find out how, even if I don't end up liking the answer.

"What do we do with this?" Danny asks. "Run with it, what? It's your call, chief."

He's right. It is my call.

"Go through the most recent of the case files and get me copies," I instruct in the toughest voice I can muster. It belies the conflict that's raging in my head. "I'll take one half and you two can take the other. Maybe between us we'll be able to find enough of a connection to lead us to our killer."

Danny salutes. "Yes, ma'am."

Lindsay nods her assent and they get to work accessing the older case files. Suddenly exhausted, I go back to my office to pour the remainder of my coffee from that morning down my throat. When I look on the blinking light on my phone, I realize that I have a voicemail. I close the door and press play, expecting to hear Flack's apologetic voice with an offer or coffee or dinner to make up for his loose lips. I have every intention of making him pay dearly for his indiscretion when a voice that isn't Flack's rings into my office.

"_It's me_," the voice says and the shiver that it sends through me tells me that Mac Taylor has somehow gotten a hold of my phone number. "_I'm sure you've exonerated me by now. You know where to find me_."

He disconnects the call and my heart jumps into my throat. The information for this case—if it is all one case—is building up too fast for me to process and I feel like I'm drowning. I have a dead mobster who _wasn't _killed by the man who admits to torturing him the same night he was murdered; the individual that actually did kill the mobster is also wanted for several other crimes and has yet to get himself put into the system for anything else. Not to mention the fact that I have a seemingly unrelated soldier who is out for God-knows-what and dragging me into it. Well, that's not exactly fair. I kind of dragged myself into whatever it is he's doing.

I listen to his message again and wonder what the hell he means by knowing where to find him. I haven't the slightest idea where to find him. The first time we met he'd walked onto my crime scene and the second time was when he'd broken into my apartment. While it's a strong foundation for resentment that lasts a lifetime, it doesn't really tell me much about where he's been staying. I don't get the feeling that I'm being blown off, but he's not making it easy for me either. The sensation feels a lot like a college final; they want you to pass the test with flying colors, but God forbid they make it easy on you.

Deciding that he's not going to get rid of me that easy, I pull my chair up to my computer and open my tracing software. Usually I would get Adam to do this kind of thing—he's much better at it than I am and he works a lot faster—but this isn't something I want to be proclaimed to the lab since they've recently been showing their inability to keep something a secret. Typing in the number to my office, I pull up the last number to call in. I recognize the area code, it's a New York number, but not the number itself. I thought it might be another disposable cell phone until the prefix latches itself onto a memory.

I smirk. I should have known.

I pick up my phone and dial the number, fighting a smile while it rings. A few seconds later, a familiar voice answers.

"Hello?"

"Why, Colonel Brand," I say, "Why am I not surprised?"

He chuckles and I feel it through the earpiece of the phone.

"Detective Bonasera! I should have known it wouldn't take you long," he says in greeting. "I have someone here for you, just one moment."

I wait for just a second before Mac's voice vibrates in my ear.

"You're quick," he observes.

"When I want to be," I admit and lean back in my chair. "I'm sure you've figured out that you've proved your innocence."

"I was hoping as much."

"You've also gotten my team's attention," I say, drumming my fingers on the top of my desk. Nervous motion. "The fingerprints we pulled from your knife pulled up twelve other cases that go as far back as fifteen years ago." I hear silence on the line. "But of course, there's no way you would have known that."

"I had no idea," he says and neither of us believes it.

"What's going on here?" I ask and I hear the exhaustion in my own voice. It's not often that I feel older than I am. "What is this about?"

"I can't tell you everything," he says but I marvel that he's willing to be honest. "But what I can tell you, I will. Just not now."

I lower my voice. "When?"

"I'll find you when I can," he says after a short pause. "I don't know when that might be, but keep an eye out for me."

"I was afraid you'd say that," I say and he laughs.

"If you want to back out, now's the time," he offers and I scoff.

"Not a chance."

**A/N: Sorry guys, but this is going to be my last chapter for a couple of days. My baby sister is getting married tomorrow and I'll be otherwise engaged as the maid of honor. I promise, though, that I'll have the next one up as soon as I can. In the meantime, I would love coming back to your wonderful reviews. =)**

**Have a great weekend!**


	6. The Rules of Fight Club

**Author's Note:**

**I'm back early! (Obviously.) How was everyone's weekend? I hope it was super; mine was long and exhausting. Coming back to your reviews was all the joy this weekend has afforded. I can only hope that this chapter was worth the wait. =)**

**Chapter Six**

"**The Rules of Fight Club"**

I call it quits just after eight in the evening, after anyone in their right mind has already gone home. Hawkes was the last to leave before me, and Danny and Lindsay before that. Today we split into groups and took our turns at luck with tracking down the old case files our fingerprints had turned up. Hawkes and I had no luck; four of the six cases on our half had either no living relatives or no relatives that knew anything to add to the ridiculously little information we had. The other two cases we hadn't touched yet when we decided to call it a night.

Danny and Lindsay had better luck, but not by much. Apparently one of the victim's families received flowers from an anonymous sender once a year—the date of their daughter's death. Oddly enough, their daughter had been dead for ten years. Every year they called the police, but the complaints had never gotten very far. Danny and Lindsay promised they'd look farther into it and left them with cards to get a hold of us if something else came up. It's a strange pattern, to be sure, but may or may not have anything to do with Jimmy Corelli's murder.

All this is spinning around in my mind as I take the elevator down to the street. Nothing is logically turning up, but the one person who can answer my questions isn't finding me. I can't say I'm surprised, really; enigmatic apparitions that leave you handcuffed to ladders aren't usually the easiest people to get a hold of. Patience has never been my virtue, and tonight is no different. It's not an admirable quality for a scientist, but there you go. Some things just aren't capable of changing.

My patience is being tried even now, as I wait for a cab. They're all at dinner, apparently, and I'm left standing on the side of the street waiting to see the glow of headlights. When they finally do appear, it's almost eight-thirty and I'm starving. The only thing on my mind now is a meal and a hot bath, in no particular order. I wave my hand in the air and the cabbie pulls to the side of the road. Without paying attention I slide in and my shoulder bumps into someone. I turn my head to apologize and find myself staring into stunning blue eyes that catch me completely off-guard. My breath seizes in my chest before I let out a loud exhale.

"I told you I'd find you," he tells me as I pull my seat belt across my chest.

"If I didn't know you already, that would have scared me a lot more," I tell him as we pull away from the building. "Your shock value is starting to wear off."

He smiles. "I'll have to start trying harder, then."

"I'd really rather you didn't," I reply and watch as he leans forward to give the cab driver instructions to take us to Central Park. I say nothing about the choice but somehow the location seems highly contrasted to the places I usually find myself running into him. I have to appreciate the change, I guess. I'm not going to be thrilled if I keep waking up to find him in my apartment at six o'clock in the morning.

After a little bit of a drive the cabbie drops us off and Mac hands him the fare. He holds the door open for me and offers his hand as I get out, surprising the hell out of me in a good way for the very first time. After seeing the aggressive side of him in spades, this aspect is more than a little strange. I can appreciate it for what it is, though, so I offer a small smile in thanks.

We say nothing as we walk into the park itself, strolling along the sidewalk at dusk before he comes to a stop in front of a bench that sits just in front of a giant elm tree. He takes a seat and invites me to do the same. When I consider the series of circumstances that led to this meeting, it all seems entirely surreal. I don't complain, though, no matter how odd it is. We sit for just a second in silence before my curiosity gets the better of me.

"This is a peculiar meeting place," I tell him as a jogger goes by, white wires leading out of his ears. "No dank basement or poorly lit parking lot. I'm a little disappointed. I was expecting something a little more like 'Fight Club'."

"Sorry," he says, "I'm not allowed to talk about Fight Club."

I laugh, really laugh, and I realize when I catch the mildly surprised look on his face that this is the first time I've really relaxed enough in his company to do so. Not that he's given me ample opportunity to relax. Now, however, the air is different. Simpler. Somehow, it no longer feels as though we're on opposite sides of the battlefield. He's beside me now, and it's easier to feel that way than I thought it would be.

"Why are we here?" I ask and he shrugs.

"I like the anonymity."

"Everyone's anonymous in New York," I remind him and he smirks.

"You have a point."

As much as I enjoy relaxing, probably more than I should when considering my company, I know that it's not the reason I'm here. Nowhere near, in fact. A lot of victims have closure on the line, and I'm fully intent on giving it to them. So, as much as I would like to pretend that I'm just enjoying an evening out with an acquaintance, I don't allow myself that luxury.

"Whenever you're ready to start talking," I lead in and he looks a little lost. I know the look and I can sympathize.

"I'm not sure where to start," he confesses.

"Do you know who the fingerprints on the knife belong to?" I ask him and he shakes his head.

"No. I have an idea, though," he says and clasps his hands together in his lap. "I have no proof to back it up, but I have an idea."

"I'm guessing that's where I come in," I offer and he nods.

"You were right when you said your resources were better," he says. "You can piece things together a lot faster and I lot more accurately with an entire lab at your disposal than I could with just instinct and what Colonel Brand can dig up."

"That I can give you," I say, staring out at the park. "I need to know what this is, Taylor. I need to know who I'm helping and why if I'm going to stay involved."

"You can call me Mac, you know," he offers and I catch his eye. "I never really cared for my last name."

I nod. "I can see your point. You look a lot more like a 'Mac' than a 'Taylor'."

"I've always thought so," he chuckles. "It wasn't an issue until I enlisted. In the Corps, you either have your last name or your nickname. I didn't really have a nickname."

"You don't strike me as a nickname kind of guy."

"A lot of people feel that way."

"You didn't answer my question," I remind him.

"I haven't figured out how yet," he says honestly. "I'm trying to decide what's safe to tell you without putting you any closer to the situation than you need to be."

"If you're trying to handle me with kid gloves, you can do yourself a favor and cut it out," I point out. "If I can run an entire crime lab, I'm pretty sure I can deal with whatever this is."

"I'm not trying to keep you out of the loop because you can't handle it," he says and I believe him. "This isn't an official investigation. What happened to Jimmy Corelli wasn't some government-ordered hit and I'm not James Bond. I'm doing this on my own. No backup, no plan B."

"What _are _you doing?" I ask. "You've yet to mention that in anything other than vague references."

"I'm trying to get Raphael Benevuto out of the game," he says softly. "Permanently."

"Benevuto?" I ask and the name rings a bell. I'm not entirely sure where I've heard it until my face locks onto the memory of an older Italian man being lead into the courthouse. It hits me hard, though, and I look at him like he's out of his mind. Which, I've decided, he probably is.

"The mob boss Benevuto?" I ask, shocked. "I thought his name is Michael."

"Raphael is his youngest son," he corrects, "He's thirty years old, spoiled, and a violent psychopath."

I've never heard of the son, but I assume it's true.

"He kills for pleasure and it doesn't matter to him who his victims are; junkie or mother of four," he says. "The family stopped trying to control him years ago, and now they spend most of their time and energy cleaning up after his messes. Then, after he's done with someone, his best friend from high school takes care of whatever's left."

"Let me guess," I say, my voice rough, "Kevin La Salle?"

"None other," he says and leans back against the bench. "It's disturbing how sick people gravitate towards each other. But with the family attorney on their side, neither of them will ever spend one second in custody. They know he's a monster, but family comes first no matter what."

"How do you know all this?"

"I'm sure the Colonel told you my MOS," he says. "You're not the only investigator in the world."

"Careful," I gently warn. "You need my help, remember?"

"Believe me, I haven't forgotten."

"What made you do all this?" I ask and I keep a careful eye on his as his jaw clenches and his mouth presses into a thin line on his face. I know in that instant that whatever happened between Mac and Raphael Benevuto was incredibly personal, and that Corelli was just a means to an end to him. It's brutal, I know, but it's what happens when someone you care about is ripped away from you. If you're not careful, anger quickly becomes all you have left.

"That's not important," he says quietly and for once I don't feel the need to press. It's obvious that he's lost someone, and I have an intimate understanding with that kind of pain. I deal with it on a daily basis. So, if ever he feels the need to tell me, he will. Until then I'll leave it alone.

"Fair enough," I say and watch as he stares at the ground between his feet. "When this is all over, when it's done and Raphael is in prison, will you tell me the whole story?"

He looks up at me and I have the unsettling sensation that he's reading some part of me I've hidden away. I feel the irresistible urge to turn away, to break whatever connection he's forged, but I can't. As intense as he is, I can tell it's not anger that's behind it. Some primal part of me, the part that relies on instinct rather than logic, says that it's curiosity mixed with something that the world has yet to put a name to.

"Yes," he reluctantly agrees and his voice is slow and measured. Control falls off him in waves and I'm momentarily stunned. "When it's over, I'll tell you."

"Will you feel better then?" I ask and I find it a little hard to believe how direct I'm being with someone I have absolutely no personal history with.

"I keep expecting to," he says and I can tell that it hasn't happened yet.

"Not to change the subject," I start, knowing that's exactly what I'm doing, "But just how much information has the Colonel handed you about me?"

This time, he grins.

"Why? Are you nervous?"

"Something like that," I admit and it's not far from the truth. I'm not exactly comfortable with the idea that a man I know next to nothing about could know more than just my address and how to get in without making a sound. As far as I'm concerned, that alone is bad enough. But the man must be psychic on top of everything else, because he takes one look at my face and laughs.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'm not planning on breaking in all the time."

"I think the words I was looking for are 'ever again'," I say pointedly. "Not that I minded having coffee made for me already."

"I think that's fair," he tells me. "I can make you a deal. Barring unforeseen circumstances, I can promise that I won't break in again."

"You'll use the door?"

"I'll knock and everything."

"How generous of you," I say sarcastically and he laughs.

We fall into a comfortable silence—which is odd, considering we haven't had the chance to be comfortable yet—and I can't think of anything else to say. Logical Stella is telling me to leave. Bid him farewell, and get a cab home. Curious Stella, on the other hand, is content exactly where she is. We watch the pedestrians thin out as night falls, because most people with half a brain know not to be in Central Park after dark. We're not worried, though, because I know I have a weapon and it's not a stretch of the imagination to think that he does, too.

"What can I do?" I finally ask and he looks at me with a question in his eyes. "You're using me for my resources. What can I do?"

"Mostly background," he answers and he's back in work mode. "I need whatever I can get to hold against these guys. Getting close to Raphael Benevuto isn't going to be easy. I'm working my way up."

"How hard could it be?" I ask. I don't do much undercover work, but I have to assume it's easier to find a man than it is to get into the business.

"You'd be surprised," he says and wrings his hands. "There are at least five bodyguards in the house at one time. If he goes out, he's usually with La Salle, Corelli, and one of the bodyguards. Not to mention whoever else is with him. Right now I'm trying to flip the lower-levels into giving me information on where and when he's alone. The more information you get me on the thugs, the faster this moves."

"Get me a list of names," I say, my voice even. "It's only going to take a day or so to get the information you need. Give me something else."

"That's it."

"That can't be all," I argue. "You were willing to turn Corelli into a bloody mess to get whatever information he managed to give you. If there's something I can do to prevent that happening to anyone else, I will."

I could see that he was gritting his teeth and I knew I'd managed to go from comfortable silence to hitting a nerve in just under five minutes. It's impressive, even for me.

"You wanted to work with me on this, Detective," he says and his voice is tempered steel. "If you have moral complications that interfere, then this is going to be the last time you see me. We're doing this my way; end of story."

I don't like being given ultimatums.

"What then?" I ask. "I go back to chasing you around New York, waiting for the next body to turn up with your DNA on it?"

"I'm not killing them," he maintains.

"Not now, you're not," I insist. "What happens when you hit one guy once too many, or too hard? Guess what? That's murder. It doesn't matter what kind of moral standards you have when you're in prison."

"You're insufferable, you know that?" he asks.

"Do you really think you're not?" I accuse in return.

He studies me for a moment before shaking his head in defeat.

"I have no idea what I was thinking when I let you talk me into this," he wonders aloud. The exhaustion in his voice makes me smile a little; I can be a little vindictive when I feel like it.

"So give me something to do and I'll leave you alone."

He looks up, hopeful. "Do you mean it?"

"Well, for a little while at least."

"There's always a catch," he mutters. "At nights I watch the Benevuto house to see who's going in or out. I could use another set of eyes."

"Surveillance?" I ask and he nods. "I can do that."

"That's what I'm afraid of."


	7. You Say You Want a Revelation

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks, everyone, for your continued interest in this little tale! Many of you have mentioned the complexity of their case, but I assure you that I'm trying to keep it as understandable as possible. It will become clearer as more of the pieces are put together, I promise. If you have any concerns, **_**please **_**don't hesitate to tell me. Of course I want to correct anything that's too confusing.**

**Okay, that's a long note. Sorry. =)**

**Chapter Seven**

**"You Say You Want a Revelation"**

"Are you ready to get started?" I ask Hawkes as I grab the keys to a department vehicle. He gives me a small grimace but nods and catches the keys when I toss them in his direction.

"I'm as ready as I'm going to be," he says and we head for the elevator.

Our mission today is simple: to investigate the remaining two open cases in our half, and see if they have any names or places in common with the other half that Danny and Lindsay are in charge of. Today we're having help and I'm incredibly grateful, because this way it's going to go a lot faster. Angell, I'm pretty sure, is with them and Flack is supposed to be meeting up with us.

I consider it a little strange that they happened to be at the same place when I called them this morning—Saturday morning, no less—but I can give him hell about that later. Flack is something like a little brother to me, and he was there for me after my hellish ordeal with Frankie. I trust him with my life, but maybe not with all my secrets. He'll be incredibly mad that I haven't told him about Mac, but for the moment it's the right thing to do. He can get as mad as he wants later, after I've held up my end of the deal. I have the cautious hope that he'll forgive me.

Hawkes and I meet him at a coffee shop around the corner, where he gives me a tentative smile. He's testing the waters; I wasn't thrilled with him after the whole handcuffs incident. I give him back a genuine smile of my own to show him that it's water under the bridge. Even still, he reluctantly approaches me with a cup of coffee that I know will be exactly how I take it.

"Friends?" he asks.

"What else?" I ask and he laughs.

"Good to know," he says and gives Hawkes a nod in greeting. "Where are we headed?"

"Perry Street," I answer as we head back out to the car. Hawkes hands the keys to Flack, who has some masculine compulsion that makes him genetically inclined to driving. Or so he says. I think it's a tough guy habit that he needs to break. It's not going to be me that does it, though. I want no part of that battle.

"Jesse Francis was murdered two years ago," Hawkes reads from the back seat. The case file is open in his hands. "Her husband lives in their home now with their two children."

"Where was she murdered?" Flask asks as he speeds around a right turn. I'm thrown against my seat belt and I give him a pointed look, his answer to which is a shrug.

"She was found in her car a few blocks from her office," Hawkes replies. "There was a partial print lifted from the door handle in the back seat."

"COD?" Flask asks.

"Strangulation," he replies. "The fibers found on the body were matched to a red silk Hermes tie. Fingerprints brought up no hits."

"Tell me straight up," Flack says as we round another corner. "What are the chances that all these fingerprints are from one guy that just happened to be at every crime scene?"

"If he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, astronomical," I answer. "If he's the killer, they're significantly higher."

"A serial killer with no MO whatsoever, and no apparent type?" he asks. "Pretty damn strange, if you ask me."

"Good thing I'm not asking you," I reply and he snorts.

"Keep it up, Bonasera," he warns, "One more comment like that and you're on your own. You and Sheldon can handle this one without my help."

The threat is idle and we both know it.

Not that it matters. After fifteen minutes with out victim's husband, it's more than apparent he had nothing to do with her death. The memory of her loss still brought tears to his eyes, and he was eager to keep their two small children out of the room while we were discussing it. He had no idea who could have killed his wife, or would have wanted to. It made no sense to him then, and he'd had no sudden epiphany since the last officer that called to check up on the case had questioned him. He confessed that he wasn't expecting to ever know the identity of the person who wrecked their family, and it was almost too much to watch. I can't imagine watching everything fall apart and having no idea who shattered the pieces.

We leave the house with the promise of a follow-up call, but the look in his eyes tells me very clearly that he doesn't believe it for a second. I know that calling him is one of the first things I'll do when it turns out that Mac's plan gets results. It's small, I know, but I know it will mean the world to someone else.

Our next stop is across town in a neighborhood much less becoming than the one where Jesse Francis had started her home. Here, the windows had bars on them and the only decoration was the crude graffiti in neon colors that marred the buildings along the road. Kids in baggy jeans and heavy sweatshirts hung out on street corners, waiting for the first available opportunity to start a fight. The house we're looking for is small and muddy brown, and although it's seen its share of carnage it still looks better than its neighbors. A failed attempt at a flower garden had sprung up on either side of the small porch, and for some reason the wilted flowers seem sadder to me than a patch or dirt would have.

Amy Swift lives here with husband her ten-year-old son, Sam. Sam was playing in the front yard with a basketball and a backboard that had been nailed to the side of the house when we pulled to the curb, and he raised his head to regard us with skeptical eyes. The slightly deflated basketball dropped from his hands as we walked up to the yard and he shoved them in his pockets, meeting my gaze head-on.

"You must be Sam," I say as I move to stand in front of him Hawkes and Flack are standing slightly behind me, giving me room to take the lead. "I'm Stella. Is your mom around?"

He nods. "You're here about my Uncle Nate, aren't you?"

"That's right," I confirm and he runs to the front of the door. He stops with his hand on the knob and motions us to follow him. We do, and he leads us into a small living room with worn furniture. A small woman is curled up in a chair with a photo album and a box of tissues; her eyes and nose are red. A quick peek at the case file a few minutes before we pulled up told me that her older brother's murder was only two weeks ago. It was, as yet, unsolved; the first and last break in the case was the discovery of fingerprints on a cigarette pack found a few feet from the body.

"Amy?" I ask and the woman nods in confusion. "I'm Stella Bonasera, and these are Detectives Flack and Hawkes. We're from the New York crime lab."

"Are you releasing my brother's body?" she asks expectantly and I shake my head. Honestly, before ten minutes ago I hadn't realized his body was still in our possession. It wasn't my case; the night crew had caught it.

"No, I'm sorry," I say and I keep my voice soft. "A new lead has come up, though, and I wanted to ask you a few questions if you're okay with that."

"A new lead?" she asks and sits up straighter in her chair, sending chopped red hair into her face. She pushes it away with an absent hand her bloodshot eyes reach mine. "You know who killed Nate?"

"Not yet," I say, "But we're close. The same fingerprints we found at the scene or your brother's murder were found at a crime scene earlier this week. We think it's the same person. Do you know Jimmy Corelli?"

The way her face hardened and her lips disappeared into a thin white line told me she did. So far, this is the only connection we've managed to find between the previous case files and our newest murder.

"That bastard did it, didn't he?" she asks and her voice is gravelly. "He came around here a few times looking for Nate, but I lied and told him I haven't seen him in a while. I knew he was bad news, but Nate kept telling me not to worry about it; he had it covered." She scoffs and I know it's close to a sob. "He's got it covered, all right. The bastard is dead."

She bursts into tears and I lean down in front of her chair, resting my hand on her knee.

"Jimmy Corelli was murdered, too," I tell her and Amy wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands.

"You're serious?" she asks and I nod. "Someone killed both of them?"

"Do you know who would do that?"

At this question, all she can do is sigh. "Sam?"

The little boy looks up. "Yeah, Mom?"

"Take the nice policemen into the kitchen and get them something to drink," she says and the boy looks up at the significantly taller men next to him. Hawkes and Flack understand that his mother is trying to get him out of the room, but apparently the boy doesn't.

"Yeah, come on," Flack says. "I could use something to drink. Maybe I'll show you how to shoot three-pointers when we're done."

"Yeah?" the boy asks and it's no surprise that he's excited an adult other than his mother has taken interest in him.

"Definitely," Hawkes adds and they take off into the kitchen, each giving me a supportive smile as they exit the room. Amy gives them a grateful look and then turns to me. I know the woman is only in her late twenties, but her eyes make her look much older.

"Nate was such a good man. Kind, always easy to laugh," she starts and her eyes drift to the pictures in her lap. "He was so handsome. Wasn't he?"

I nod, looking down at the pictures.

"After he got out of the service, though, he had problems," she said and ran her hands over the pages. "He got into drugs first, and then gambling to try to keep up with his drug debt. He was my hero one day and then out of the blue he was sleeping on my couch, needing money."

She looks up at me with earnest eyes.

"He wasn't like that. Not really," she says and I believe her. "He just fell in with the wrong people, and Nate's always been so willing to keep people happy. He should have never gone like he did; all beaten up that way. They, they--" her voice hiccups, "They shot him in the face. They wouldn't let me see him. I had to identify him from a tattoo he got on his arm after boot camp."

"Nate was in the military?" The significance doesn't escape me.

She nods in answer. "Yeah, the Marines," she replies. "It wasn't for long—just the required four years after high school—but he loved it while he was in. I was so proud of him. My big brother, the soldier."

"I'm so sorry, Amy," I say and my eyes catch on a picture of Nate in his uniform. He's much younger and clean-cut in the photo, but it's the other man in the picture that takes my breath away.

"Who is this?" I ask and point to the picture in question.

"Nate's best friend in the whole world," she says with a laugh. "I had a whopper of a crush on him for a while, but then I met Jason and we had Sam not a year later. They stayed friends, though, if I'm not mistaken. Every now and then he would mention his buddy from boot camp, Mac."

I nod, and the feeling in my stomach tells me that I've found Mac's motivation. The picture is from at least ten years before, but I know that it's him. The dark hair, the startling blue eyes, and the strict mouth don't leave much room for denial on that part. His jaw is square but smooth, and some of the lines from his face are missing. The smile on his face, though, is what intrigues me. It's wide and genuine; it would seem out of place on the Mac that I've come to know, but it seems nothing if not natural on the Mac from back then.

I neglect to mention my acquaintance with Mac Taylor while Amy and I continue to talk. She tells me more about her brother, and I take some pride in feeling like I'm helping her deal with his death. We listen to the boys playing outside and laugh together. When it's time for us to go, I can tell that our visit has helped some. Her shoulders don't hang as heavily, and the ghost of a smile has come back to her lips. She calls Sam in the house and we wave goodbye as we pile back into the car. Flack and Hawkes have lost their ties and jackets, and both their shirtsleeves have been rolled up to their elbows. They smell like sweat and I grimace a little.

"You can drop me off at my apartment," I say. "I don't want to be with you two any longer than I have to with this kind of odor."

Hawkes smells his shirt and makes a face.

"I think that's the smell of defeat," he says. "Sam belongs in the NBA."

"Kid kicked the crap out of us," Flack agrees and I laugh. The idea of two grown men getting beat by a ten-year-old is endlessly entertaining.

We ride in silence until my apartment until Flack pulls to the curb and looks over at me. With a face like that I know he's asking a question of me, but I have no clue what it would be. I stare back at him.

"What?" I ask and he puts his arm over the seat behind me.

"Have you heard any more from that guy Taylor?" he asks and it takes me just a second to remember that I'd told him about Mac after the handcuff incident.

"No," I say finally and I feel a little twinge of guilt at lying to him. "And it doesn't matter anyway. It wasn't his prints on the murder weapon. He must have just cut his hand on the desk earlier in the day, before the murder."

"You believe that?"

I shrug. "It's what the evidence tells me."

"Good enough for me," he says but I can feel a catch coming. "If you hear from him again, though, I want you to call me first thing. No chances."

"Calm down, Don," I say, using his first name to let him know that I'm being serious. It's not something I do often. "I can take care of myself, you know."

"Don't I know it."

I say goodbye to him and Hawkes and wave as they drive off, going wherever it is they go on a Saturday evening. My plans have already been laid out for me, so I hurry up to my apartment and start getting ready.

-----

The SUV I've rented pulls to the curb in front of Stella's building and I kill the engine, pocketing the keys. I let myself in the front of the building, heading for the elevator. The sensations careening around in my stomach are innumerable and unnamable; with every step I take in her direction, I feel an anxious excitement that has no place in this situation. Rationally, I know that this is probably the worst idea I've ever given into. When I think that way, dread eases up my throat and I'm forced to swallow it down. Rationality, though, leaves no room for the pleasant surprises I continuously find in her. That, I think, is what brings me to her front door. My knuckles rap against the wood and a few seconds later she opens the door, eyes bright.

"Come in," she says and opens the door wider for me.

"I'm guessing you haven't changed your mind?" I ask, a quiet part of me hoping that she has.

"No."

"I thought I'd ask," I say and walk through the door, into her home. "I didn't expect to see you come home so soon. Does your team know what you're up to?"

"Oh, sure," she says and her back is still turned. "I sent them all an e-mail. They know where I'll be tonight and who I'll be with."

I must look as horrified as I feel, because she laughs.

"Calm down," she says and reaches for her cell phone on the counter. "I'm not that stupid. They're all at home doing whatever it is they do on Saturday night. I have my business and they have theirs."

"You're making me regret this," I warn as she slips a black leather jacket around her slim shoulders. She clips her holster to her waist and I contemplate telling her not to bring it along. Since it's just as likely that she'll draw it on me as Benevuto, it wouldn't be a terrible idea.

"You'll get over it," she replies and ushers me out the door.

I lead her out and down the hall, wondering for the millionth time what I've managed to get myself into.

**A/N: This chapter is a little shorter and it came a little later than my chapters usually do, but I've been having a few little scuffles with writer's block and demands on my time. Sorry all!**


	8. And In Everything, Moderation

**Author's Note:**

**Once again, you all know the drill: Thanks so much and all that jazz. (I feel a little silly repeating the same "thank you" over and over, even if I do mean them.)**

**Kudos to those of you who noticed the Beatles reference in the last chapter! Well done! I do love the Beatles. =) It won't be my last reference. **

**Chapter Eight**

"**And In Everything, Moderation"**

It's dark when I pull up into the garage of the empty house next to the Benevuto household. We've left the city completely, driving to an upscale neighborhood just outside city limits. The people who live here have limo drivers and nannies instead of cab drivers and babysitters. I was lucky to find that the house next to Raphael's was on the market, and a quick visit with the realtor convinced him that it was okay if I stayed in it for a little while. Free of charge, of course. It was quite a break to discover his gambling habit; I would have hated telling his wife.

Usually I'm not nearly so willing to exploit an advantage, but these aren't the most ideal circumstances I could have thought up for what I have planned.

My accomplice is quiet for most of the ride, which strikes me as unusual for her. I can't proclaim to know her well, but I get a feel for people relatively quickly after spending a little time with them; it's a trait of mine that I happen to value. My impression of Stella Bonasera is that she's hardworking and passionate in everything she does; quiet doesn't seem to fit that motif. If I'm right, that means she has something on her mind. I'm curious, but not enough to ask. Chances are strong that I'm not going to like the answer she gives me. So, rather than pushing my luck, I let her have her head space and I take my own where I can get it.

I pull a key out of my pocket to unlock the side door and she looks surprised.

"I don't blame you for leaving your apartment," she says and walks in while I hold the door open for her. "I would have traded up, too."

"It's only temporary," I say by way of explanation and she gives me a pointed look that says very clearly, _I'm not buying it. _I don't answer her, though. I've decided that omission is going to be the only way I keep her at a safe distance; I'll let her draw whatever conclusions she wants as long as she doesn't try to arrest me again.

The house is mostly empty; there are a few pieces of furniture left over from the previous owners and, thankfully, curtains that block prying eyes. There's a kitchen and several sitting rooms and offices downstairs; upstairs are the bedrooms and bathrooms. The master bedroom is the one that offers the best view of the house next door, and that's the one that serves as my temporary base of operations. This is where I lead her rather than wasting time giving a tour. She follows, silently, and I know that she's filing everything away in that remarkable brain of hers.

Even for a master bedroom in an upscale neighborhood, the room is massive. The walls are done in sterling white and all the remaining furniture is stained dark brown. Lush red carpet covers the floor and I find myself staring at it, thinking for the millionth time that I've never seen a more superfluous home. There's a table on one side of the room where I've set up all my equipment as well as an armoire and a couple of chairs. The bed has been removed, but I see her eyes rest on the sleeping bag in the corner.

"I've never heard of roughing it in the Hamptons," she says, humor lacing her voice.

I shrug. "I've had worse."

At this, she raises an eyebrow but says nothing. I trace her line of sight to the table and she's undoubtedly eyeing the rifle that's leaning up against it. I'm sure she also notices the magazine lying on the table a few inches away. The gun hasn't been fired in some time; I don't load my weapons unless I intend to use them in the near future. I have every intention of using it soon enough, but it's early in the game yet for that.

While I can see her desire me to question me about it, I can also see her holding something back. What it is, I haven't the slightest clue. If this is going to be her time to bow out, though, I just wish she'd get it over with. I think I'd be relieved if that turned out to be the case, but I'm willing to bet I'd be just as disappointed. Somehow, the more masochistic side of my personality has managed to develop an affinity for her. She makes me nervous but she makes me smile, too.

Eventually, she moves away and walks toward the bay window that overlooks the Benevuto household. It's three stories and takes up most of the block. The structure itself is done in white with the predictable Roman columns decorating the front. Lush flower gardens and a pool are in the backyard, which I haven't gotten a close look at yet. As far as I can tell, security is pretty tight. It's not hard to find the cameras that watch the outside of the building, and it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination to think that there are more that aren't as easily visible. It's impressive if you're driving by, but it's quite intimidating if you're trying to illegally gain entry.

"It's beautiful," she comments and I give an imperceptible nod. I watch as her eyes follow a little girl running out to the front yard, grabbing a ball and running right back inside. She turns to look at me, as though she were shocked to see a child in a household that holds three generations.

"That's Leona Benevuto," I say. "She's five."

"Is she…" she starts but her voice trails off.

"No," I respond because I think I know where her train of thought was headed. "She's Roberto Benevuto's daughter. He's Raphael's older brother."

"The whole family is in there?" she asks me. "Children? Grandparents?"

"Michael is the oldest, and the head of the family," I confirm. "He's Roberto and Raphael's father. Their mother lives there, too, but her health is failing. Then there are the two boys; Roberto's wife is named Janet, and she has two children. Leona, who you saw, and Roberto Jr. Michael's brother Gino is there, but as far as I can tell he's completely separated himself from the family business."

"The Benevutos are responsible for most of the heroin in New York and at least half of the prostitution," she recalls. "I've done more than one case that involved them. They always seem to slip out of the noose, though, no matter how tight we think we've held it."

"Yeah," I say. "They're good at that."

"They put their attorney through law school," she scoffs. "They had him set out for that since grade school. The law is the law, but loyalty is another game completely."

"I hadn't heard that part," I reply. "I knew John Ross was a friend of the family _now_, but I didn't know he and the family had history."

She nods. "La Salle doesn't live there. He has an apartment in the city."

"But he comes and goes a lot," I add. "He's a pharmacist."

"Which is why he was our logical choice when all his victims had date rape drugs in their systems," she tells me and the anger is evident on her face. "It never held up, though. It was all circumstantial. Then his victims started recanting or disappearing from the face of the earth. Our guess was that he paid them off."

"Or he killed them."

She winces. "That's probably the most likely." She turns to face me. "We never picked up on the Benevuto connection. Who do you think is protecting who?"

"I'm sure it's a little of both," I say and though the investigator in me wants to keep throwing ideas around with her, I know that's not why I'm here.

It's never been my intention to put Raphael Benevuto in prison; since Amy called to tell me that Nate was murdered, I've been planning on putting him in the ground. If I'm successful in covering my tracks, when this over I'll go back to my life and I'll be able to look Nate's sister and nephew in the eye when I visit. If something goes wrong, though… I'll have one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in the nation on my back. I sneak a glance at Stella and the idea is even more unsavory when I consider that I've managed to drag her into it, too.

"What am I looking for?" she asks me and reaches for the binoculars still sitting on the window sill. She puts them up to her face and frowns. "These don't do you much good in the dark."

"They do if you hit the right button," I say and reach around her to flip the night-vision switch. My arm brushes hers and for a split second I feel her muscles tense. I try to ignore my own unpleasant jolt, but it's harder than I expected.

"Better?" I ask and my voice is unintentionally rough.

She nods and clears her throat.

"Yeah."

Then she's back at the window, the binoculars pulled against her eyes. I lean my shoulder on the wall next to her and question my real motives in bringing her in. Of course I can claim that I needed her resources, and it would be the truth. There's something else about her that's bothering me, but I don't know what it is. There's always the chance that it's not her that's caught my attention; it could be my own poor choices that are sinking their teeth into me. The last week hasn't been my best. By all means, I should have disappeared after she pulled my DNA out of the warehouse.

I tighten my fist and I have a feeling that it was the nail on the desk that did me in. I tried reaching around the desk and managed to get a rusted nail instead of the drawer I was looking for. I would have been in a lot more trouble if my tetanus shot hadn't been kept up to date. None of that, though, would have been a reason to stick around. But here I am, sharing most of the information I have on the family and waiting for her to form her own impressions. If ever anything was going to screw this up, it's probably going to be my apparent weakness of will.

"I have no idea why you brought me in on this," she says out of the blue and I'm shocked out of my thoughts, thinking she'd managed to read them. "I can't see anything worth the time. Curtains are drawn, and no one's moving around. Do you have ears in the house?"

I push aside the relief to answer her question.

"I'm trying to get there," I answer. "Corelli didn't feel like having homework, or I would have." I consider the fact that Jimmy's now on a slab in the morgue. "I guess it's for the best, or I would have been in a lot more trouble than getting stuck with you."

"Good point," she admits. "If that's the case, why don't you just go up to the door and knock?"

I raise an eyebrow. "You're kidding."

"No," she says and shrugs out of her jacket, laying it on the table. "Say you need to use the phone or something and plant the microphone where they won't find it."

"It's not that simple, Detective," I explain.

"Stella."

"What?"

"Call me Stella," she says and offers a small smile. I feel no need to make a bigger deal out of it than it is, so I nod in compliance.

"Even if whoever answers the door happens to buy the story, it's highly unlikely that they'll let me in the house," he says. "And besides, I don't want them recognizing me any sooner than they have to. It's easier this way."

"So what do you do?" she asks and hands the binoculars back to me. "Just sit around and watch until boredom puts you to sleep?"

I chuckle. "Something like that. But it's early yet."

"Oh, joy."

-----

It's dark and I'm bored out of my mind when I pick my head up off the table. Mac is still at the window with his eyes glued to the mansion next door, but I haven't the slightest idea what he's waiting for. Flack always complains about stake-outs but I never understood why; it's because I'd never been on one. Finally there's an upside to being a scientist instead of a beat cop. The boredom is taking years off me, I'm sure, but Mac doesn't seem to mind. I'm not good at sitting still and doing nothing, but apparently he is. I have to wonder what kind of strength of will it takes to stare at a house for hours on end. If he's planning on boring me out of whatever it is he's up to, it's only going to take another hour or two before I run screaming from the room.

My eyes survey the table and rest on the laptop just to my right. Curiosity is one of the traits I have in spades, so it's no surprise that I reach for it. I have to assume that Mac has some knowledge of my activities, so I don't bother asking for permission to open it up. The programs that are running aren't any kind of top-secret software, so I flip through them. A couple of them are picture files—members of the Benevuto family with their names below each picture. I study them and find some familial traits shared by everyone in the family: dark hair, pronounced cheek bones, and darker olive-toned skin. They are, without a doubt, Italian.

The oldest son, Roberto, and his wife are attractive and in their mid-thirties. Leona 's hair is cut to her jaw line and held up with a rubber band in this picture, and the toddler is Roberto Jr. Or so I assume. I find a picture of Raphael and wonder if I've seen him anywhere. He's certainly attractive, but there's something about his eyes that seem to suck all the light from the rest of the room. It's unsettling to look at, especially when I consider the monster the man claims as his best friend. Kevin La Salle's picture is next, but I've seen him before and I don't care to spend any more time obsessing over him than I already have.

I minimize the picture file and find background information about all the people in the pictures. It's all incomplete and relatively vague, but I'm assuming that's why he's kept me in the loop. I close the files because I'd rather familiarize myself with accurate information. The files I get him will be complete with all personal, professional, and legal information. I feel a little guilty for using the government's resources for something that is decidedly _not _government-related, but only a little. It's not often we get the opportunity to put someone like La Salle or, for that matter, Raphael Benevuto in prison.

The next program I pull up is a tracking program. It's not dissimilar to the one we use at the office and I wonder why he has it pulled up. As far as he's told me, he hasn't managed to bug any member of the family. I turn the tracker on, and our address pops on the screen with a blinking red dot. The program holds an in-depth layout of the street, and I'm willing to bet that it can zoom out to view the neighborhood and the city. It has option to send the results to a cellular device, and I assume that's the number Mac carries around with him. I take a closer look at the red dot and whoever he has bugged is close.

"I thought you said you hadn't planted anything on the family," I say, my voice carving into the curtain of silence we've held around us over the last two hours. He pulls the binoculars away from his face and stares at me with the laptop.

"I don't."

"According to this you do," I say, turning the laptop for him to see. His jaw clenches just a bit and I wonder if I would have caught it if I hadn't been paying closer attention to him. The reaction confuses me for just a second before my jaw drops.

"You didn't."

He says nothing, and I take that as answer enough.

"Oh, my God!" I yell and jump out the chair. "Where is it? Tell me where it is!"

I wear a purse, but not very often. I don't have it with me now, so it doesn't make sense that he would have left it there. He had access to my badge, so I pull it off my belt and inspect it. There's no evidence of anything on it and when I move it around, the tracking dot doesn't move. I throw the badge down at the table and reach for my jacket, which he could have easily bugged one of the times I thought he was being a gentleman by placing his hand at the small of my back. The thought disgusts me but the jacket turns up clean. I'm throwing the garment back down on the table when my holster catches the edge of the table and clatters to the floor. On the screen, the red dot shakes for a bit and drops a fraction.

My eyes drift back up his, and he looks like he's contemplating jumping out the window to avoid the confrontation I'm about to instigate.

"You've got to be kidding me," I say slowly and the calmness in my voice belies the temper I feel raging just below the surface. "Talk. Fast."

"I needed to be able to keep tabs on you," he says and realizes instantly that it was the wrong choice. "Now that you're involved in this, I needed to know where to find you when I needed you. If something went wrong, I wanted to be able to know where you were."

"So you follow me?" I ask and he winces but I couldn't care less. "You break into my apartment, you have your boss do research on me, and now you have me bugged. Tell me, Mac, just how much did you learn?" The rage is building up fast and I can feel blood rushing to my face. "Did he tell you all the good stuff or just what you needed to know?"

"Calm down," he says, eyeing me. I would reach for my holster to throw the bug out, but right now I'm too afraid I'll accidentally take the gun out, turn off the safety, and shoot him.

"Don't you dare tell me to calm down," I say and nod at my holster. "Pick it up. Take the bug out right now, or I swear to God I'll shoot you."

"Would you really shoot me?" he asks but he moves away from the window no matter what he thinks I'm actually capable of doing. He picks the holster up and removes the gun, keeping it safely out of my reach. It's one of his smarter movies. He peels something small and black away from the leather and hands it back to me without the gun. The bug he puts back on the table, probably wondering where he'll be able to stick it next without me noticing.

"It was for your safety, Stella," he tells me and I scoff a little. "Really. I didn't want to put you in danger without being able to find you if I needed to. If something goes wrong and Benevuto goes after you instead of me, I would have used this to get there in time."

As much as I hate it, the argument makes sense.

"Are you on the tracker?" I ask and he says nothing. "I didn't think so. That's not exactly playing fair. What if I needed to find you?"

"You're not wrong," he sighs and reaches for a pen and a slip of paper. "This is the number I keep on me at all times. Type it into your software at the lab and you'll have a fix on me in a couple of minutes."

I take the piece of paper he offers me and study it. I commit the number to memory within a few seconds and program it into my cell phone under "MT". I fully intend to take advantage of this development not only out of spite, but because as much as I hate admitting it—he has a point. If something, God forbid, goes wrong we need to be able to access each other. Until this point I hadn't considered that what we're doing has every opportunity to blow up in our faces. Of course now it's all I'm really thinking about.

Mac sees the wheels working in my mind and backs away slowly.

"If I turn my back, will you shoot me?" he asks.

"Not if you hurry."

**A/N: Writing that particular confrontation was a lot of fun, I'm not going to lie. But I do seem to be having a few problems with writer's block so I have a question: I'm interested in acquiring a beta. Any volunteers? I could use the help. Review and let me know!**


	9. Bonasera Stella Bonasera

**Author's Note:**

**Thank you to all of those who offered to beta for me, and I appreciate every single one of you. I've chosen a beta—Lily Moonlight, to whom I am eternally grateful for all her help—and I can only hope that this chapter lives up to all your expectations.**

**Thanks so much so all of you, and continue to review because your encouragement is what keeps me going. =)**

**Chapter Nine**

"**Bonasera. Stella Bonasera."**

Mac drops me off at my apartment a few minutes after midnight, his tracking device firmly secured to my badge. After a long debate I agreed to take it back, but with a few conditions: I got to keep tabs on him whenever I wanted, and he still wasn't allowed to break into my apartment since that was when he's planted the bug in the first place. That deal struck, he replaced the device. I argued against the holster, but he thought he was funny the first time he put it there. Apparently, it was the only thing he could be sure I would carry on my person at all times.

The guy thinks he's a comedian.

I wave him off at the curb and watch as he pulls away, disappearing into traffic within moments. It's easy to get lost in New York, and it's strange to think that he can blend into every other face in the crowd. He's so distinct in my mind now that it's hard to think he's just another face to anyone else.

Our stakeout went well enough, I suppose, after all the drama about the tracking device. I caught up on our players and familiarized myself with the faces I need to know for whatever it is Mac has up his sleeve. As I take the elevator up to my apartment, my instincts are telling me that I know exactly what Mac has planned. That's a dangerous road to go down because if I'm right, what I'm doing now would be acting as an accomplice to murder. It's not often that I'm wrong, but I think I'd be grateful this time around if that ends up being the case.

I let myself into my apartment and wait only a moment, testing the air despite the fact that I just watched Mac drive away. Everything is silent and still, and I relax if only a fraction. I know it seems paranoid, but if there's anything I've learned about the man, it's to never underestimate him. If he's smart, by now he's learned the same lesson about me.

This is the thought that's running through my mind while I shower and eat leftovers from two nights before that I haven't given a second thought to since I made them. A dark merlot is breathing next to me and I take a long pull from my glass, taking a moment to taste the wine before it travels down my throat. The taste is strong, but not strong enough to wipe the favor of doubt out of my mouth. Usually, I'm confident in my instincts and go headfirst into them. It gets me into trouble every now and then, but for the most part I'm pretty accurate. This, however… this makes me pause, and I hate the feeling. It's not something I experience often.

Tomorrow is my day off. I'm on secondary call, but usually I don't have to come in. Normally on my days off I take the time to clean the apartment, do laundry, and run any errands that have been demanding my attention. If I'm lucky I have time at the end of the day to catch a movie or go out to eat. Errands don't suit my current mood, however, so this time I'll be engaging in something a little more sinister but a lot more fun.

Tomorrow it's my turn to spy.

Morning finds me earlier than I planned, but I don't mind because it's not laundry that I'm waking up to. This morning I wake up to espresso and the joy that comes from knowing you're doing something you're not supposed to do. I suppose I should consider myself lucky to be a cop; if I hadn't gone this route, I would have been in a world of trouble and loved every minute of it.

I dress in jeans and a purple t-shirt that's probably shrunk in the washer a few too many times. Ideally, though, I'm not running into anyone who's going to care. I'll throw a blazer over it and pretend it's a fashion statement; no one but me will ever know the difference. Since I'm not on the clock I don't suppose I have to look entirely professional.

I'll have breakfast and a healthy dose of caffeine first, but then I'll beg a favor off my best friend to relieve him of his car. He can always ride with Angell, right? If I play my cards right he'll surrender the keys without demanding to know what I'm doing with it. A quick stop at the office will tell me where Mac is, and with any luck he'll be off playing war games with the colonel. He doesn't seem the type to sit around in the house all day, no matter who he's watching. This is what I'm hoping when I grab my keys, my badge, and my gun and head for the door.

Two hours later I have Flack's steering wheel in my hands and the assurance that Mac is disposed of for the time being. He's in Jersey, doing a little reconnaissance if the quick conversation I had with him in the office is to be believed. The background checks I promised him are sitting in the seat next to me, waiting to be leafed through. Adam seemed pretty curious considering none of our cases had anything to do—or so he thought—with the Benevuto crime family, but that's a secret I'll be keeping to myself for a little while longer. For now mine and Mac's movements are on a need to know basis.

My first stop is back to the apartment to give me a chance to review our players. I let myself in and hang my jacket over the back of my chair, grabbing my second cup of coffee for the day. The first file I flip to is Jimmy Corelli's, because in all the craziness that this last week has encompassed I'd been paying more attention to my suspect-slash-partner than to the nature of our victim. Nothing I read about him is a surprise—assault charges, a couple of minor scuffles with the DEA, and nothing else of interest. He was a low-level street punk before he started falling in with the Goodfellas.

Next on my list is Michael Benevuto, whose long and colorful rap sheet includes his fair share of arrests and suspicions but absolutely no convictions. It's not surprising; the war on organized crime has spanned almost a century for a reason. If it was easy to get rid of the mafia I'd be doing laundry and mopping floors instead of playing James Bond.

Don't ask me which one I'd rather be doing, because I don't know.

Michael Benevuto is seventy years old, and retired. Nothing in this man's varied career seems to serve any purpose, especially when my ultimate target is his son. The older son, Roberto, has a far more interesting history that includes a handful of arrests as well as a few stints in Attica. His last, though, was seven years ago and ended in a seemingly happy marriage with two children. He hasn't shown up on the most wanted list for some time now, but I have a feeling it's only because we haven't found the right evidence. For all intents and purposes it seems as though he took over the family business at the age of forty, but flies well under the radar.

For someone who plays a role in the biggest organized crime association since Capone, Raphael Benevuto has almost nothing on his record other than a birthday. I know that he's thirty-five years old and drives a black BMW, but I don't know how the hell a violent psychopath responsible for at least eight deaths has managed to so efficiently evade the police's attention. I, for one, had no knowledge of his existence. I knew of his father well enough and I'd heard of Roberto once or twice, but the first time I heard his name was on a bench in Central Park.

By this point it's quickly becoming apparent to me that I've started something I might not be able to finish.

There are papers on every other member of the family, but as far as anyone can tell they play meaningless roles in the grand scheme of things. There's a file near the bottom of the pile that I printed up out of curiosity, and now I'm wondering if the sensation was a little closer to suspicion than anything else. My hands reach for it almost of their own accord, and after they've done that I can't stop them from opening the file or my eyes from searching out information. They're only human, you know.

Mac Taylor was born in March just under fifty years ago in Chicago, where he was also raised. He has a younger sister, Dawn, who lives in California. His father died of small-cell lung cancer when he was still young. He enlisted in the Marine Corps right after high school dismissed him from their clutches, and he served in the Middle East on several occasions. His has been a successful and honorable career; from all appearances, Mac Taylor is nothing if not a brave man and a strong soldier. Nothing in his background screams "psychopath", but then again I already knew that. I don't trust easily or all that often, but there's something about him—his eyes, maybe, or the way he clenches his jaw—that makes me want to confide in him. It's not until I consider the state of Jimmy Corelli's corpse that I doubt myself.

How much does he know about me? The question begs to be asked, but I can't answer it. If he could get my home address and phone number, it's not a leap to think he could have gotten a hold of information even more personal. My childhood is public record; being a ward of the state makes you fair game in that department. It's not my lack of parents, though, that has me worried.

My ordeal with Frankie is not something I'm ashamed of, but it's definitely something I keep close to my chest. No matter what Flack and the shrink have told me, it doesn't get any easier talking about it. The idea that this man could have pulled it up on a whim and learned everything to know makes me sick to my stomach. If he knows he's made no indication. I think I prefer it that way as opposed to the alternative, whatever that may be.

I take another drink of coffee that is now room temperature, trying to swallow down my apprehension along with the caffeine my system desperately needs. It does very little, but I feel better than I did before. As informative as this diversion has been, I didn't learn anything more here that I couldn't have done without. The Benevutos are more a mystery to me than ever, particularly Raphael, and Mac is just as much a stranger as he was when I woke up this morning. They say, though, that there's a lot to be learned about a person by looking at their home.

I've been in Mac's apartment and didn't learn anything I didn't know already. There were no personal pictures on the walls or in albums, which tells me he's not big into memorabilia. The relationships he has are kept in places away from the public eye, which I understand completely because I do the same thing. Everything was kept strictly in its place and in mint condition, which tells me he's a Marine or compulsive. Probably both, knowing him in as limited a fashion as I do.

There was one part of his world, though, that I didn't have complete access to. With the man himself in New Jersey doing whatever it is he's doing, I would have more of an opportunity to get to know him without all the pretenses and the classified information crap that he seems to love giving me. It's sneaky and underhanded, and I can't wait to figure out whatever it is he's hiding. If he's hiding anything, I suppose. It's just as likely that I'm looking for something that doesn't exist.

This in mind, I grab my keys and head for the door.

-----

Traffic being what it is, it takes over an hour to get out of the city. The sun is glaring in my face and my head is starting to hurt because the sunglasses I paid way too much money for aren't working. By the time the traffic thins out and I'm well on my way out of New York, the Benevutos' neighborhood is pulling into view. I do a few quick turns around the block to make sure the SUV Mac rented is nowhere in sight before deciding it's safe to park. The garage is empty other than Flack's unmarked cop car, which I lock behind me before heading into the house.

I'm not surprised to find the door locked, preventing me from reaching my goal. Luckily for me, I'd anticipated this event. The lock-picking set I'd also borrowed from Flack worked wonders on the simple lock, and I'm walking in the door in just under a minute.

The house looks just like it did when I left it last night, and I'm not that surprised. I hadn't been expecting to find the Bat Cave, after all. The furniture hasn't been moved and as far as I can tell the kitchen hasn't been touched. It doesn't smell like food or coffee, and there aren't any take-out containers lying around on the counters. For a moment I wonder if this is really where Mac spends his time, but I shuffle the thought aside because this is the last lead I have when it comes to him. If I'm wrong, I'll be at a loss for what to do next.

A thorough inspection of downstairs tells me that he spends almost no time there. The closets are unoccupied and the only things left from the previous tenants were a couple pieces of furniture and the curtains that cover the windows. Everything is decorated to look like something out of the Victorian age, and it's not uncommon for this area. It's a stark contrast from the bedroom upstairs, which makes me wonder if the last tenants didn't redecorate for themselves. The thought doesn't really matter, I guess. The only conclusion I can come to with some certainty is that if Mac is hiding something, it's not downstairs.

Upstairs, though, is another story.

I'm convinced of my impression that he's living here now when I get halfway up the stairs. The smell of aftershave and male soap hits me hard as I reach the landing of the steps and a quick inspection of the bathroom reveals a slick shower curtain and a damp bath mat as well as a man's razor. If nothing else, Mac is showering here. My eyes rest on the towel that's resting across the expanse of sink and my mind unwillingly jumps to picturing it slung low on muscular hips. Well, almost unwillingly, anyway. Once again, I'm only human.

Fantasizing isn't on my agenda, no matter how indulgent the thought may be, so I leave the bathroom behind. I'll go back to it when I'm desperate enough for information. Until then, there are two other bedrooms on this second floor that show no signs of inhabitants. The study is empty save for a few papers lying on the floor, which I soon learn mean less than nothing as far as this expedition goes. They're ancient recipes for some kind of casserole; not exactly the top-secret dossier on the real Mac Taylor I was hoping to find lying around here somewhere.

I'm starting to think that I'm wasting my day off when I reach the master bedroom with nothing to show for my efforts. A quick scan of the room tells me that he packs his things away if he's not in the house. There's no sleeping bag on the floor, and the laptop is missing from the table. The rifle that had been resting against the table last night was now gone, and I can't but wonder if his reconnaissance trip to Jersey was actually a hit. It's not hard to imagine, but I don't want to.

I'm spared the dread when I open the armoire to find the rifle inside, complete with the empty magazine that went with it. It's there along with the laptop and the sleeping bag. A large duffle bag is stretched across the back part of the wardrobe, which tells me that Mac has definitely been staying here. Affirmation is something I enjoy, so I let out a small laugh in triumph. The duffle bag isn't exactly the most interesting or relevant thing I could have found, but I'll take what I can get. I'm not quite desperate enough to go through his laundry, but if nothing shows up on the laptop I'm not going to have much of a choice.

I'm going to reach for the computer when I hear a noise from downstairs. My hands pause in midair and I turn my head to listen better. The unmistakable sound of a door closing reaches me and I inwardly curse, knowing that Mac is going to come upstairs and find me snooping around. He's not going to be thrilled, and then I'm going to have to work up some righteous anger to cover for it.

I hear heavy footfalls downstairs and a feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me that it's not Mac who's down there. Probably against my better judgment, I button the front of my jacket to hide my gun and start down the stairs. I can feel all the muscles in my body start to tense and I'm expecting to see someone materialize at the bottom of the landing. No one does, and I don't know if I'm relieved or even more worried than I was at the top of the steps.

I reach the bottom and press myself against the wall, listening hard for whoever is in the house. I hear nothing; not breathing, not footsteps. Convinced my mind is playing tricks on me, I let out a sigh of relief.

That, as it turns out, was not my best idea.

It's not paranoia that reaches out and grabs me, no matter how ridiculous I feel. It's a large hand that wraps itself around my wrist and pulls me away from the wall, dragging me into a long hallway that's dark without the help of windows for light. I give in to instinct and strike out, my free hand colliding with what feels like a brick wall encased in skin. I grimace and I know that my odds just went down because whoever was on the other side of that blow is not going to be happy with me. Before I have the chance to react, the hand on my wrist pulls me roughly forward.

Harsh breath bears down on me and I hear a raspy voice in my ear.

"You don't belong here, baby doll," he says and I shiver. "Lucky I found you first."

**A/N: Aaaah! What's going on! Who is he? Well, you'll have to find out after you review. =) Oh! And a special thanks to Moska, who helped me with the background information and helped me get a little better in touch with the characters. **


	10. You'll Be Sorry

**Author's Note:**

**Sorry about that cliffhanger, guys… ;) Well, that's a lie. I'm not really sorry but I felt like an apology was a little necessary. In any case, here's the rest. I swear I would have gotten it up much sooner, but the site didn't feel much like going along with the idea. I was freaking out when it wouldn't let me on! In any case, I'm happy to be connected with you all again. I'll have to stop taking this site for granted. =)**

**Chapter Ten**

"**You'll Be Sorry"**

The hand that's not holding my wrist wraps around my neck and suddenly I'm being shoved back. My heels drag the floor and the back of my head bounces off a wall, starting a ringing in my ears that's almost deafening. It's going to take a lot more than that, though, to get me down. I bring my knee sharply up and I connect with appendages that I assume the guy values. I feel and hear the air rush out of his lungs but his grip on me only tightens. I feel the loss of air quite sharply but all I can think to do about it is to grasp at my waist for my gun.

I don't know if he knows what I'm going for, but he lets go of my neck to reach for my other hand and pins them above my head. Startling eyes that are almost yellow are boring into mine and I want to look away; it only takes a second to realize I can't. Dark brown hair is falling into his eyes and the stubble on his chin has my mind whirling. I know it's not possible, but it feels like I'm staring at Frankie. This thought makes my breath catch and my knees go weak beneath me.

"I saw you driving around the block," he rasps as he leans against my cheek, "I wondered what you were doing alone. You're alone, aren't you, sweetheart?"

Crippling fear prevents me from saying anything, but I feel myself shaking in his grasp. I remember being a detective, a survivor, but any proof that I was ever strong is gone now. I don't feel like the same Stella who chases criminals down and hangs from buildings; I feel like the Stella who was tied up and terrified in her own home. This is the feeling that finally gets me to act; being afraid isn't something I take lightly, and I've had enough of men like Frankie. Frankie tortured me enough while he was alive—he's not going to do it while he's dead, too.

I bring my knee up again and he blocks it with his own. I can see his satisfied smile even in the dark that covers the hallway. I have no idea where the urge came from, but the only thing I can do is bring my head forward to collide with his in a sickening _crack_. Obviously my head is harder because it hurts me but he releases me and stumbles back, hands on his head. Blood is pouring from his nose and he stops it with the back of his hand; it gives me no small amount of pleasure to watch him bleed. I don't have time to reach for my gun before he charges me again, knocking me against the wall. His forearm closes my windpipe completely and I grasp at his arm, fighting for whatever breath I can get.

"You bitch," he curses and says something else that I don't hear over the ringing in my ears. His eyes are manic and the blood on his face doesn't make him look any better. I wonder then which one of us is going to be walking out of this house. Before I can really scare myself with the thought, I'm released and sliding down to floor and my attacker is thrown against the opposite wall by hands that I can't see.

I hit the floor and the air rushing back into my lungs makes me dizzy. I cough, gasping for air that won't come. I think I see someone else in the hallway, but I can't be sure. Slightly dazed, I watch as the man comes crashing down to the floor a few feet away. I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, my reflexes kick in because I reach for my gun and pull it out of the holster, pointing it in the direction of the huddled mass on the floor. It's only a second, though, before the gun is pulled from my grasp.

I must not have been as tough as I remember.

A warm and calloused hand on my cheek turns my attention from my assailant to worried blue eyes that are looking me over. The same hands are pushing my hair out of my face, gently moving my chin from side to side. It takes a moment for me to recognize him, but Mac is the one who's cupping my face. He's talking to me, but his words get lost in the roar of blood in my ears. My first reaction is guilt, because he's going to know what I'm doing here.

"It's not what you think," I say but my voice sounds far away.

"The hell it isn't," he says but he doesn't sound mad.

"I hate laundry," I say and I realize how ridiculous it sounds. It was a logical segue when I thought it, but out loud it doesn't make nearly so much sense.

"I know," he says and I feel his arms go under mine, pulling me up like I weighed barely more than a feather. "Are you okay?"

My legs seem to be holding, so that's a good sign.

"I think so."

His eyes are still studying me, and if my head was entirely clear I would be much more uncomfortable than I am. Since I'm still in some asphyxia-related daze, I think nothing of it when he brushes the hair away from my face or holds my wrists up to examine them. I feel his breath on my skin, but I'm too out of it to think very hard on that either. It's good, too. If I were thinking clearly I would have been losing my mind right about now.

It takes a moment, but my eyes drift down to the man on the floor.

"Who is he?" I ask but Mac doesn't answer. Arm securely around my waist, he half carries me out of the hallway and into the light of the first living room. By the time I'm helped into a chair my head is cleared and I'm feeling much better. Enough so, in fact, to feel unnerved under the weight of his stare. I know it's impossible, but I feel like he can see the tiny line of scar tissue under my eye and the white lines on my fingertips that came at my own hands. It's almost like I'm back on my bedroom floor, waking up to find Flack bending over me and calling my name; it feels like misery.

"Did you kill him?" I ask finally and he shakes his head.

"He'll be unconscious for a little while," he answers and I'm content to leave it at that for the time being. "Not to say 'I told you so,' but this is why that tracking device exists."

"Yeah," I reply, wincing. I lean back against the chair and stare at the ceiling. Of course I need to thank him, but the words are harder to find than I thought. It doesn't help that I can still feel him looking at me, waiting to see if I'm going to pass out. When I finally feel the urge to speak, it doesn't come out nearly as well as I hoped.

"Why are you here?" I ask and I can feel the shocked look on his face before I see it. I bring my head up and he's staring at me like I just grew another head.

"Not that the question isn't warranted, but shouldn't I be asking you the same thing?" he responds and I scoff.

"You first."

"I was on the way to Jersey when you called," he starts, "And I had a feeling you weren't just calling to see what I was doing so I turned around. Was I right?"

"I was curious," I defend, "But I might have had an ulterior motive."

"Lucky for you I know when something doesn't feel right," he says and I narrow my eyes at him.

"Yeah. Lucky me," I say and the sarcasm isn't hidden nearly well enough. I hear him laugh a little and I meet his eyes. As much as I would have loved to be annoyed at him, I can't. The concern for my well-being is written clearly across his face and the guilt hits me like a ton of bricks.

"Thank you," I say and I mean it.

He nods. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Depends on the favor," I say skeptically.

"I want you to get out of here," he declares. "Take your day off and make sure someone sees you do it."

His eyes catch mine and the subtext of what he's asked is evident.

"You can't be serious," I say, leaning forward to rest my arms on my knees.

"Please do this," he says earnestly. "For once, don't ask questions. Just go."

I shake my head. "I'm not doing that, Mac."

"Damn it, Stella," he swears and runs his hand over his face. "I've involved you in this enough, and this is what it costs. I want you to go back to your apartment, your lab, or wherever, and I want you to forget you ever met me." I laugh out loud, because the melodrama is almost too much to take and Mac stares at me. "This isn't funny. As of right now this partnership, or whatever it is, is over."

"Oh, you're not getting rid of me that easily," I fire back, standing to take the higher ground.

"I can disappear faster than you can track me down," he says and his voice is laced with cool civility that would have chilled me if I hadn't been angry already. "You should know by now that you only find me if I want you to."

"Don't patronize me, you son of a bitch," I say and point my finger in his face. "If you think that I've stuck around out of some misguided desire to be your idiot sidekick, you're dead wrong. I'm here because I'm trying to do what's right for everyone involved: for La Salle's victims, Benevuto's victims, and your victims."

I watch his hardened expression falter for only a second before color rushes into his cheeks. His eyes darken to a lethal shade of stormy blue but I won't budge no matter how intimidating the image might be. I've pissed him off, and I couldn't care less. We seem to be able to fall into screaming matches just as easily as comfortable silences and that kind of relationship terrifies me despite my apparent attachment to it.

Wordlessly he grabs my arm and though it doesn't hurt me I yank away, wishing that I could go one day without men feeling the need to pull me one way or the other. He seems to understand my sentiment and walks toward the hallway we just left a few minutes before. I follow and he points to the body that's still lying motionless on the floor.

"Do you know who that is?" he asks me and I stare back at him.

"No."

"There's no way you could. His name is Billy Crusoe," he tells me, "He's one of the bodyguards for Raphael Benevuto. I watched him walk in the door when I pulled up; he came in here on a whim and found you. He would have killed you without a second thought, just because you were available." He steps in front of me, blocking my view. "He doesn't know a damn thing about you or me or what we're doing, and he wouldn't care even if he did know."

"What's your point?" I ask, my voice thick with an emotion that I can't name.

"This is already too dangerous," he tells me, "And the risk is too much. The chance that we'll get out of this unscathed is slim to none, and it's not something I can ask of you." He crosses his arms over his chest and bows his head. "Go home, Stella. I'll take care of him. Just get out of here and go on with your life."

"I'm not letting you do this alone," I say and my voice sounds strange; I hadn't intended to speak. Unconsciously my hand reaches out to touch his arm, and he looks back up at me. "Nate wouldn't have wanted you to lose everything for his sake."

The shock on his face is undeniable and I feel bad for keeping that information from him—even more so that I'd intruded on such a personal and sensitive subject. He stares at me, speechless, and I try to tell him without words that I understand his loss and what it must have meant to him. I remember the few moments I spent with Nate's sister and I think that his loss is equal to hers. I can't imagine the pain he went through losing Nate, but everything he wouldn't dare say out loud is written across his face.

"You talked to Amy," he says with the utmost certainty and I nod.

"We were going through the others files that were pulled up when we ran the fingerprints found on the knife that killed Corelli," I respond. "His name came up. It didn't take long to put two and two together. I'm so sorry, Mac."

He says nothing and I wonder if I've overstepped my boundaries.

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything before, but it wasn't my business," I say and he scoffs.

"I doubt that's stopped you before," he says, but a small smile turns up the corner of his mouth regardless of the fact that he has every reason to be furious with me right now.

"Well, maybe not," I reply and try to stay in good humor, "But this time it did." I walk out of the hallway and turn around to face him. My voice is low. "If I was going to guess, though, I would say that we're on even footing."

He stares at me for a long while, but I don't kid myself that he has no idea what I'm talking about. The admittance of guilt is there, right along with something I recognize quickly. It's regret.

"I'm sorry," he says softly and I close my eyes because I know I've been right in suspecting him of knowing more than he lets on. It was easier when it was just a theory; now that it's a fact, it much harder to deal with.

"So you do know."

"When I asked for your background, I'd never expected to find something like that," he confesses but I can't seem to find my voice. "I would never have used it against you."

"You wouldn't have gotten anywhere if you had," I hear myself say but my chin tips up in defiance regardless of the awkwardness I feel toward the situation. "Frankie is a bad memory, nothing more. I resolved a long time ago that I wouldn't be ashamed of what he did to me or of what I did to save myself."

"You're strong," Mac observes quietly.

"No," I reply. "I'm stubborn."

This makes him laugh. "That I believe."

"You should. That way it won't come as a surprise to you when I tell you I'm not going anywhere." I see Mac start to object but I hold up a hand to silence him. "I'll leave now and let you take care of Crusoe if you promise that you won't kill him."

"I've told you before," he says, "I'm not a killer."

"I believe you," I acknowledge, "You do what you do because you believe it's right."

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

"No," I say, "But the right thing to do doesn't always intersect peacefully with the law."

"Is that a warning?" he asks me and his eyebrow is raised.

"More of a friendly reminder," I answer and retrieve my gun from the table he placed it on a few minutes before. "I'm going home."

A brief nod of his head acknowledges my declaration and I can't shake the feeling that a lot more is going on in that head of his than he's willing to admit or share with me. I watch him for just a minute, trying to understand him and falling pathetically short. If there's a key to Mac Taylor, I haven't discovered it yet. He moves away from me and starts back down the hallway, moving toward Billy Crusoe before I stop him by calling out.

"Hey, Taylor."

He turns.

"Don't disappear on me, okay?" I say and for a brief moment I see the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"I'll find you."

This simple sentence gives me the confidence I need to leave, and I turn away from him to walk out the door. The remaining fear from my attack is wearing off, but adrenaline is still buzzing through my veins. The anxious energy it entails is pulsing through me, and I have a feeling that I'll be speeding back into the city to burn it off. It's a safer alternative than going back in the house to duke it out with the man after he's regained consciousness, even though that's the thought that makes me feel a hundred percent better about the whole thing. I have an awkward faith, though, that Mac is going to take care of that for me.

When I walk out the side door to walk to my car, another man is standing by it. A very large dog is sitting next to him, staring up at the leash his owner is holding. I recognize him instantly, but I haven't the slightest idea what to do about it. His arms are folded across and he has a mildly curious smile spanning the width of his mouth. My first instinct is to reach for my gun, but I think I've had enough action for one day. Instead I stop a few feet away and give him a questioning glance.

"It's a beautiful house," he says and looks up at it.

"It is," I respond and take a few steps forward.

"Are you looking to buy it?" he asks me.

"I was," I say and the dog yawns. "He doesn't seem too impressed, though. Maybe it's better I didn't."

"Luca doesn't know architecture very well," he says, looking down at the incredibly bored dog. He walks forward and offers a hand that I take very timidly. His grip is strong, and dark eyes stare directly into mine—daring me to turn away. Of course, I refuse.

"I'm Raphael," he says. "I live next door."

"Stella," I say and shake his hand.

**A/N: Well? Any thoughts? Thanks to Lily Moonlight, who's been a brilliant beta and more help than I deserve. =) **


	11. For Better or For Worse

**Author's Note:**

**I noticed a few less reviews on the last chapter, so I'm wondering if you're all still reading… I really hope so, because this has been too much fun for me to give up. =)**

**Thanks again to Lily Moonlight.**

**Chapter Eleven**

"**For Better or For Worse"**

Raphael Benevuto releases my hand and continues to smile at me while my stomach slides around uneasily. I'm apprehensive, but not too much so—my tolerance for men like him is severely limited, I have a gun on my hip, and Mac is one good scream away, no matter what the man in front of me has stopped by to do. He's completely calm, so I have a suspicion that he has no idea what happened just a few minutes ago with his bodyguard. If he does, he covers it well beneath a cool and collected veneer. I'm not sure which idea scares me more.

"Luca?" I ask, nodding at the dog, "Like the Godfather?"

He laughs and looks down. "Guilty as charged," he says and I can't help but marvel at his choice of words. "You're a film lover?"

"I can appreciate it," I admit and it's not far from the truth. "So, what brings you over? Unless, of course, Luca felt the need to pay a visit."

"I'm actually looking for a friend of mine," he says and I freeze. "He's run off somewhere and I can't seem to find him. We have plans for later this afternoon."

"Is this friend human or canine?"

"Human," he says with a grin. "Tall, dark, but not that handsome."

"I think I might have run into him. Does he have a temper?" I ask and hold my left wrist up, where red marks signal the evidence of bruises to come. This time, Raphael's grin falters and disappears completely.

"Jesus Christ," he says and ducks his head like he's mortified by the realization. If I hadn't been convinced already that he was a violent sociopath, I would have believed that he was shocked and appalled by the implication. "I am so sorry. Did he hurt you?"

"Nothing that won't heal," I say truthfully but I intentionally leave out the fact that he's probably getting worked over as we speak. Mac doesn't tolerate poor behavior well, so I'm sure he'll end up a little worse for the wear. "He took off somewhere after I threatened to call the cops. I suppose he'll be back around eventually."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Raphael says dangerously under his breath and I almost believe that the temper is genuine. "Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? I know there's no excusing his behavior."

"Then don't try," I say. "Don't worry, I'm not pressing charges. He'll be a lot worse off when he turns up." Raphael looks at me, surprised. "Self-defense classes. They're a lot more useful than you'd think."

"And here I thought you were a damsel in distress," he muses, his eyes traveling over me in a way that makes me want to disappear completely. Either that, or deck him—both options are viable.

"Not me." I can honestly say that's the last thing I've ever been or will ever be.

"You're a surprising woman, Stella," he tells me and I suppress the urge to cringe. "I can't imagine why Billy would have harmed you—"

"Don't worry," I say quickly. "He didn't."

"Be that as it may," he continues diplomatically, "It was crude and uncalled for, and I apologize from the bottom of my heart. Tell me what I can do for you, really. Anything—you name it."

I'm about to deny the request in the name of integrity before an idea strikes me that I know is probably the worst idea I've had in a long time. If it's not, it's right up there. I can't take it back, though, and once I've thought of it there's no turning back. So, my tentative plan of action in mind, I change my demeanor and give him a welcoming smile.

"I'm sure I could think of something if I tried hard enough," I say and his mouth stretches into a smirk.

"I'm sure you could."

-----

I'm watching through the window and trying to decide if I can get away with murdering the son of a bitch in broad daylight. I see him move just a little closer to Stella and offer her his hand; she takes it and I grind my teeth together to keep from putting my fist through the glass. If Stella knows who he is, she's not letting on. Her stance seems comfortable enough but I can see that she's carrying tension in her shoulders. I want to think it's because she knows who she's talking to, but that could just as easily be from her earlier scuffle against Crusoe as her current conversation.

Behind me, Crusoe is starting to moan and strain against the ropes I've tied around his ankles and wrists. He's blindfolded so I'm not too concerned for the time being; I plan on leaving him alive, and I don't want him to be able to recognize me. The most he'll be able to accomplish this way is the memorization of my voice and my right hook.

I turn back to the window and watch in mute horror as she takes his hand and writes something on the palm with a pen that he gives her. I pray to God that my instincts are dead wrong, but I'm not getting that feeling. Instead I feel like someone's knocked the air out of my chest. I wait until Raphael takes his dog and walks away, smiling back at her. She waits until he's around the corner before walking back to her car, scowling. I move away from the window and run for the door, fully intending to stop her before she can leave.

I bust through the door and she drops her keys next to the car, startled to see me. I can't imagine how pissed off I must look, but I have an idea that it's nowhere near how pissed off I actually feel. Walking up to her, I'm careful to keep my hands away because she's had to deal with enough today without me grabbing her and shaking her until she has more common sense. I must have taken her by surprise, because she just stares and the usual hint of defiance I see in her is missing.

"What the hell was that?" I ask and my voice is a strong whisper. "Do you know who that was?"

"Raphael Benevuto," she replies and bends to pick up her keys. "He was looking for his bodyguard."

"And?"

"And I told him he'll turn up eventually," she replies, her tone completely nonchalant about meeting the one person in the entire world I'd love nothing more than to kill.

"So you give him your phone number?" I ask incredulously. The look on her face tells me that she thinks she did something right, but I have no idea what that would be. I cross my arms over my chest to make sure I don't feel the need to drag her back inside with me and lock the door.

"Look, this is exactly the kind of access you need," she says earnestly. "All you have right now is an empty house and a pair of really expensive spy goggles. This can get us a lot farther than that."

My jaw almost drops.

"Are you out of your mind?!" I shout despite my previous concerns of keeping my voice down. She stares back at me, startled, but doesn't respond. "You just barely get away from the guy's _bodyguard _and you decide to set up a date with the real thing? This has got to be the stupidest thing you've done so far. This is reckless and it's going to get you killed!"

I realize just a moment too late that I've managed to start our next fight.

She squares her jaw at me and the fire changing the color of her eyes tells me that I'm in for the screaming match of a lifetime. When she finally speaks, her voice is calm and even but simmering with temper that's blazing just below the surface. For some reason, this is even more intimidating than screaming and throwing things. I realize with some dread that I'd rather she hit me than say whatever she's about to say.

"The last time I checked, I was a detective," she seethes, "Not a kindergarten teacher."

"I never said you were."

"But you treat me like I am," she replies and I wither a little under her gaze. "If you care to tell me that I am unprepared or unqualified for my position one more time, I'll prove you wrong by bringing attention to your existence that has, thus far, been concealed. I've informed my colleagues of your innocence; don't make me regret that."

All I can do is give an almost imperceptible nod of my head—nothing about this woman makes her seem capable of producing an empty threat.

"I'm helping you because the evidence we gather will be crucial to stopping both Benevuto and La Salle and will give closure to their victims and their families," she tells me. "Not because I'm after your approval."

"I didn't say that."

"Of course not," she says with a hint of sarcasm. "So these are your choices: You can either be a pain in my ass and continue to patronize me, in which case I'll send the entire NYPD to your doorstep; or you can help me and we'll both get what we're after."

The ultimatum is clear-cut, and I'm not in a position to refuse her.

"You'll let me help?" I ask, but what I'm really wondering is if she'll let me protect her to the best of my ability. For a moment I think she understands that, because she grits her teeth and squares her shoulders. I can only guess that she's temporarily set her pride aside when she nods. Her dark curls bob around her face and before I can say anything else she turns to unlock the car.

"I'll call you if he makes contact," she says and climbs behind the wheel. I watch her pull out of the driveway and speed back down the road, headed toward the city. I spare only a moment to stare after her before turning and walking back into the house, where something much less desirable is demanding my attention.

-----

I don't go home immediately, because between my altercation with the bodyguard and my power struggle with Mac I'm more than listless. My fingers are beating out the rhythm of the song on the radio and my foot is tapping on the floorboard, because I have no other place to divert the energy. I take the long way back to the city and it's just as well because I'm not sure Flack would like getting a call telling him that I got a speeding ticket while driving his car. He might laugh, but he might not; especially considering that I hadn't told him what I planned to do with it. He'd handed the keys over, sure, but don't think I missed that curious look in his eyes for a second.

It's all Mac's fault that I'm bent out of shape.

I've never met a man who infuriates me so well, and it's only worse that I want to smile at him after I stop yelling. I give him an opportunity, a really damn good one, and he gets mad at me. And of course it's even worse that he'd just saved my ass in an otherwise losing battle with someone who had me by at least sixty pounds and a foot in height. Don't get me wrong, I can hold my own, but I can hold it a lot better when it's not a surprise attack. If it hadn't been for Mac, though… I shiver. I don't want to think about that. I'm trying to be mad at him. I mean, who was he to question my abilities as a detective? He doesn't even know me.

The jerk.

When I get back to the city, my first stop is Flack's apartment. It's the early evening now—the sun's just starting to go down—but I have a feeling he's home. I find a parking spot in the far corner of the lot and my hand unconsciously drifts to the gun at my hip. Being NYPD for all these years has taught me to be careful, and unfortunately that ends up translating into paranoia more often than not. I make it to the elevator unscathed and I'm lucky to find it deserted; there's something strange about sharing an elevator with strangers. You'd think that with all my time in a city as huge as New York I'd get used to it, but it hasn't happened yet and I don't expect it to any time soon.

Flack's apartment is at the end of a tidy but sparse hall—his building isn't exactly Park Avenue, but it's not Harlem either. It's filled mostly with other people just like him: hard workers with a paycheck that leaves something to be desired. He complains every now and then about the people who live above him, but it only took one visit with his badge in hand to convince them that they really didn't need their music that loud.

I knock on his door and I hear hushed voices before heavy footfalls sound behind the door. I feel Flack on the other side of the door, staring through the lens at me. I offer him my best non-confrontational smile and I hear the lock slide back. When he opens the door, he's in a navy NYPD t-shirt and he has a piece of bloody Kleenex hanging out of his nose.

"Interesting look," I say, studying him. "Whose fist did you block with your face?"

"Very funny," he replies and I muffle a laugh at the nasal intonation of his voice. "Perp decides today that if he wins a fist fight with yours truly, he gets off scot-free. Freaking idiot. I'm telling you, we don't get paid enough to deal with this crap."

I give him a bright smile. "Who won?"

He glares again but holds out his hand. "Keys?"

"I was getting there," I counter and pull them out of my pocket. I step towards him to hand them over and catch a whiff of something that doesn't smell much like his cologne. I hold the keys in my hand and ask, "Dolce and Gabbana?"

He freezes and looks like a deer caught in headlights.

"What?"

"Dolce and Gabbana; it's really good stuff. Isn't that Angell's perfume?" I ask although the question is pointless; I already know the answer. There's no way I spend this many years as an investigator and don't piece together evidence of an affair when it's right in front of my face; particularly when it's my best friend and his partner.

"What?" he says again and it's almost a stutter this time. Before he has time to answer, the woman in question walks up behind him and leans against the doorframe, giving me an amused smile. Her hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail behind her head, and she looks just as comfortable in Flack's sweats as he does.

"Hey, Stella," she says and we both revel in the sight of the blush creeping up the usually cocky detective's neck.

"Hey, Jess," I reply and by the time I've finished the sentence, Flack is beet red. "I just came to drop off his keys." I turn to look at Flack. "Thanks again, by the way. I put gas in it to make up for leaving you without transportation."

He nods mutely and takes the keys.

"I'll let you get back to your night," I say and wave goodbye to the both of them. By the time I make it to the elevator, I hear the door close followed immediately by footsteps that I recognize as Flack's. I turn around to face him just as he's reaching me and he grinds to a halt, looking as though he were about to be interrogated. But, in typical Flack fashion, he beats me to the punch.

"Hey, wait up," he says and I forget about pressing the button for the elevator.

"Yeah?"

"Are you mad at me?" he asks and I look at him like he's crazy.

"Why would I be mad at you?" I reply but he still looks frantic.

"You know, because I didn't tell you about Jess and me," he says, his eyes wide.

"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head. "I can't take you seriously with a tissue up your nose."

He grunts in frustration and yanks the tissue out.

"Better?"

"Much."

"I was going to tell you," he says earnestly. "It was crazy—just one day, she was this cool chick who happened to be my partner, and then: bam! I was crazy about her. Out of nowhere, you know? I meant to talk to you about it, but it just never came up and I couldn't have figured out the right words anyway even if it had."

"You're not required to tell me everything," I reply and run my hand down his arm. "I understand completely, and I'm happy for both of you."

"Good," he says, "No, well, great. But that's not what I meant. I just didn't want you to think that I was keeping something from you." He looks down at me and his look is much more serious an expression than I'm used to seeing on him. "Because, you know, I'd be hurt if you started keeping things from me. That's what friends do; we talk to each other."

Ooh. He really knows how to hit a nerve.

"Of course we talk," I say, wishing with every fiber of my being that I didn't have to hold out on him the way I do. "There's nothing you can't tell me, and I know you're here when I need you."

"Yeah. Exactly," he says and smiles. "Anyway, I've got to get back. But I'll see you later, okay?"

"Definitely," I agree and watch him turn to walk away. His strides are long and confident, and I can tell that he feels much better going back to the door than he did walking away from it. Halfway back down the hallway I call to his back, "Be good to her, Don."

He turns around and grins.

"Who do you take me for?" he answers and this time I smile and press the button for the elevator to take me back down to the street, where I'll call a cab and ask to be taken back to my apartment.

It takes almost fifteen minutes outside for a beaten-up yellow cab to pull to the curb. On the ride back to my apartment, my thoughts are with Flack and Angell. I really like the idea of them together, I decide after a few long moments of consideration. She's tough enough to put up with him and all his macho crap, and I know that he's dedicated and secure enough to keep up with her without causing too much of a problem. Separately they're fierce—I've worked with both of them enough times to know that—but something tells me that together they'll be invincible.

This is the thought that brings me to my front door after paying the cab fare and taking the elevator up. I almost go through the door without noticing the envelope that's taped to it. I stare at it for a moment or two, wondering how much weirder one day could possibly get. Unwilling to jinx myself, I take the envelope down and walk into my apartment. I close the door behind me and sit down on my couch to open whatever it is that's been left for me, the more morbid part of my brain screaming that I probably don't want to know what's in there. I know for a fact that it's almost statistically impossible that it's good news; it's not often that my mail skips the box and comes straight to me.

I tear open the envelope and take out a plain piece of white paper with a man's small handwriting on it. The letters are slanted but neat and easily legible, but I don't recognize it as anyone I work with—that's the handwriting that I spend the most time studying. I read the letter, and somehow I'm not surprised.

_Stella:_

_Tomorrow I'll be in New Jersey doing some research if you're up to wasting another of your days off._

_-M.T._

And then, as though scribbled as an afterthought:

_p.s.—Sorry._

I can't help but laugh, and even then the smile won't come off my face. I don't know how he manages to do it, but somehow he beat me into the city with enough time to leave me a note and make off without a trace. It's very sneaky, and it's very him. I almost wonder if I passed him on the way here—of course, since he is who he is, I wouldn't have noticed. His apology is noted, however, and I probably have one of my own to make. I'll call him early tomorrow morning to let him know I'm on the case. I'll give Danny and Flack notice that I'll be out of town so they know to call in someone else if they need me and then—theoretically—all my bases will be covered.

Until then, the rest of the night is ahead of me and I have a feeling I'll be spending it doing the one chore I hate the most: laundry.

**A/N: I decided that I'd spent a little too much time making Mac and Stella fight, so I wanted them to offer a bit of peace to the other. What do you think?**


	12. When in Jersey

**Chapter Twelve**

"**When in Jersey"**

The sun isn't up yet when I roll out of bed. I'd gone to bed around midnight last night only to find myself unable to sleep for more than half an hour at a time. Absolutely nothing worked, so it was something of a relief when I finally gave up and decided to get up and moving. I'm sure I'll be tired for the rest of the day, but I can worry about that later—after I've had enough coffee to keep me human.

After I've started my coffee I reach for my cell phone; there are no missed calls or texts, but I would have woken up if there had been. Years of getting phone calls in the middle of the night has turned me into a light sleeper. I check my voicemails and there are none of them, either.

On a whim, I decide to record a new voicemail message that doesn't include my last name. On the off-chance that Raphael Benevuto calls me, I don't really want him knowing my last name and getting the urge to look me up. I've already given him my first name, but I can make something else up for him to chase around if he deems it necessary. It takes me barely a minute to record the new message, and I try to sound as non-threatening as possible. It's a lot harder than I thought it would be.

The next call I have to make won't be nearly so easy, but it has to be done.

Mac picks up after two rings and his voice sounds as clear as it would have if he'd been awake for hours. It wouldn't surprise me if he has been. Since it's just beginning to show signs of life outside, I'm willing to bet that he's an early riser.

"It's me," I say and he doesn't offer a reply. "I'm taking you up on your offer."

"I hear Jersey's beautiful this time of year," he replies and I laugh.

"I'm sure it is," I say and take a look at the clock on the wall of my living room. "What time are you leaving?"

There's a brief pause on the line while, I assume, he's making a timeline in his head.

"I'll pick you up in an hour."

I disconnect the call and toss the phone on the couch, where I'll pick it up again on my way out the door. Strangely enough, I'm not apprehensive about this field trip at all; it's in extreme contrast from the last few places he's taken me. Worrying about what Mac is doing has taken up most of my thoughts for the last week, and I've had just about enough of that kind of stress. I'm pretty sure that was the reason I couldn't sleep last night. I make the silent resolution to quit being so suspicious of him—he's saved me once already, as infuriating as that is—so I think he deserves a little of my trust.

I shower and debate on what to wear, wondering if whatever research he's doing in New Jersey is going to require stealth. I'm pretty sure I can find something entirely black, but the practical voice in my head is telling me that comfort is going to be more important than color. More than likely his idea of research is going to be six hours in the car with a pair of binoculars. Besides, black in the middle of the day wouldn't have been very conspicuous. That in mind, I grab another pair of jeans and a white t-shirt that fits like it was made for me; I've had it for years now, and I dread the day that I finally wear it out. The outfit is comfortable, though, which is what I was shooting for.

I walk out of my bedroom and feel the same disturbance in the air that I felt a few mornings ago, when I'd found an intruder drinking coffee from one of my mugs. Knowing my luck, it's probably the same intruder. A quick look in my kitchen tells me that I'm right; he's leaning up against the same counter in the same way, drinking the coffee I'd made for myself. He raises his eyebrows as I walk in, his eyes immediately going to the small dark spots around my wrists from where Benevuto's bodyguard had grabbed me. I make a mental note to put on bracelets before we leave; I hadn't cared about the bruises before, but I will if he feels like staring at them all day. I throw the thought aside and clear my throat.

"Good morning," he tells me and offers another cup of coffee in my direction. I take it, because there are some things I just can't resist; caffeine is one of them.

"Not so far," I say and take a sip from the cup. Instantly I groan and I have no idea what he's done with the stuff I made, but this is amazing. "I stand corrected. What did you do to this?"

"Added cream," he says with a small smile.

"Hmm," I mutter and take another long drink before looking back up at him. "I thought you said you were going to knock."

"I did."

"And?"

"You didn't answer," he says as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. I refuse to spend any time wondering how I never heard him, because I've almost decided at this point that he has super powers of some kind. I send him a pointed glance but wave the argument aside; something tells me I wouldn't get anywhere, anyway. I don't always know which battles are worth fighting, but I know the end to this one before it even starts.

"Come on, then," I say, draining my coffee cup and setting it in the sink to wash later. "Whatever's in Jersey is waiting on us."

He complies by sitting his cup in the sink next to mine and following me out of the kitchen. I find my badge and my gun waiting for me on the table, and I send him a questioning glance that he understands immediately.

"I'm not planning anything, but it wouldn't hurt," he replies and I nod, picking the items up and attaching them to my waistline. He leads me out of the apartment and I lock the door behind us, wondering what state I'm going to be in when I come back to it tonight.

-----

I know that Newark is only a few miles from Manhattan, but it feels like two different worlds to me. I can actually tell that the sky is blue here, and it's not obscured by ridiculously tall buildings that jut into the air. It's a welcome break from the frenetic action of Manhattan, and I take temporary solace in it. The thought tells me that I need to get out of the city more often, but I rarely have the time or the inclination.

Not that I would go to Newark, anyway. Don't get me wrong—it's a nice little city, and much smaller than what I'm used to—but it wouldn't be a vacation if I did make it over. Right now the DEA is having it out with Newark because after 9/11 we closed New York's major ports, forcing drug shipments to be moved across the way to New Jersey. We've worked in conjunction with the DEA a few times, if a case had intersected. If I'm not mistaken, the cases we handled had Benevuto in common.

The more time I spend in the car, the more I realize that I know exactly what we're doing here. Mac's friend, Nate, had a problem with drugs—a problem that, I'm guessing, lead eventually to his murder. Since the Benevuto crime family traffics most of the heroin found in New York City, it makes sense that they would have a contact here. Our mission—or so it seems—would be to find that contact. Mac hasn't said as much, but I'm sure he's working up to that.

So far our journey has been silent. I've been staring out the window, and he's been concentrating on the road. We agreed on an oldies radio station five minutes after being in the car together, so it's James Taylor that's taking up the silence rather than conversation. Neither of us minds; it seems we like the same music.

We're weaving through Newark's morning traffic when my phone goes off. Mac shifts his eyes at me and I check the caller ID: It's Flack. I have no idea what he could want this early in the morning unless he wanted me to come in for a body, but even that's unlikely. He's always nagging at me about working too much, so he usually refrains from calling me on my days off unless it's an emergency.

"Hello?" I ask, forgoing my usual greeting of my last name. Flack knows who he's calling, so I don't see the need.

"Where are you?" he asks and he almost sounds annoyed.

"Out of town," I answer cryptically. "What's up?"

"I decided to surprise you with breakfast, and you're not home," he says and I read through the annoyance to find concern laced intricately throughout his words. I feel bad for his worry, but there's nothing I can do about it now.

"Since when are you up and moving this early on your day off, anyway?" he asks and I scoff.

"Shows what you know."

"Yeah, you don't say," he mutters into the mouthpiece. "Where are you?"

"Out of town," I repeat.

"You said that already," he replies. "What kind of out of town are we talking about? Greece out of town or Jersey out of town?"

I scoff. "You're closer than you think."

"Jersey?"

"Listen, Don, I can't talk right now," I say quickly, catching Mac's fierce look out of the corner of my eye. "I'll call you when I get back in."

"What the hell are you doing in Jersey?" I hear him ask before I quickly close the phone, not daring to turn and answer the question that I know is going to come out of Mac's mouth. I let the silence stretch on for a few seconds before he regards me in an expectant tone of voice.

"Well?"

"A friend," I cover but apparently that's not answer enough.

"What kind of friend?" he asks and I turn to face him.

"A work kind of friend," I say simply despite the fact that mine and Flack's friendship has a lot less to do with work than I've let on. He takes my explanation for what it is, though, and turns his attention back to the road.

A few minutes in traffic and he pulls off onto a street that ends eventually in a mostly residential part of town. It's upscale, but not nearly as wealthy as the neighborhood the Benevutos live in. He weaves around streets with ease and I have to wonder how well he knows his surroundings. A small playground comes into view and much to my surprise he pulls off into the parking lot, killing the engine of the SUV. I look over at him, confused.

"What are we doing here?" I ask bluntly. "Is there a fifth grader around that we need to get information out of?"

He catches my eye, and I see him trying to hold back a smile.

"I was thinking we could use a walk," he says and the tone of his voice has me concerned.

"A walk?"

He nods.

"Okay, then. A walk it is," I say and take my holster off my hip to lock it in the glove box while we take this walk he's talking about. I keep my badge with me, though. I've discovered that it always pays to have it nearby if an occasion arises.

We get out of the car and I walk around to his side, following him out of the parking lot and to the sidewalk that runs around the playground. There are no children there this time of day—they're all in school—but I see his eyes drifting over there anyway, always aware of his surroundings. We're close as we walk; anyone looking out their windows might have thought we were enjoying a morning together rather than casing a drug dealer's house. If I'm not careful, I'll start believing it too. I forget how easy it is to be comfortable in his company.

"You were right," I say finally. "The view isn't bad."

"No," he says, catching my eye. "No, it isn't."

I give him a tight smile but the sliver of warmth that slides down my stomach doesn't go unnoticed. In fact, I might hate myself for it. If I were a lesser woman, I might have even giggled. There's no way in hell, though, that Stella Bonasera is ever going to giggle—about anything; much less an offhanded comment that's as innocent as the one that Mac just made. That's just not my style, and it takes no small amount of effort to get me to even consider it. I don't know how I feel about the fact that it took him no effort at all.

We go down one block before he leans in to tell me something; his lips graze my ear for barely a second and I hold my breath until I realize that I should be paying attention whatever it is he's saying.

"You see that house up there?" he asks me. "The big white one with the blue trim?"

I nod.

"It belongs to Marco and Theresa Emiliano," he tells me. "Theresa is Michael Benevuto's youngest sister. Her children run New Jersey's leg of the operation like Roberto runs New York City. They've lived here for twenty years."

I can tell. The home is older but obviously well-kept, and the garden is flourishing with what looks like careful attention; undoubtedly a woman's touch, from the look of the flower choices. The tire swing tied to a branch in the front yard seems completely out of place when I consider whose home it is, but then I can't imagine what I would find there instead.

We walk a little farther, observing the house from afar. I have no idea what he's waiting for, and I'm not entirely sure I should ask. He doesn't offer any information, but finds a tall tree to lean against and if I were anyone else, I would have thought he was just hanging out for the sake of the weather. The calculating look in his eyes, on the other hand, tells me that's the last thing on his mind. I stand next to him and wait for him to tell me what to do. He doesn't talk much, and I'm not a mind reader, so it doesn't end up being as beneficial as I might have hoped.

Just a moment before I had planned to ask him what he were doing, the front door of the house he's watching opens and two men walk out. One is tall with lighter hair and the other is short and apparently balding. I can't tell who's older from this distance, but Mac is watching my observation and sees the question in my eyes.

"Brothers," he says simply.

"Right," I say, "Like Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger are twins."

He laughs a bit and we both watch them walk into the garage and climb into a green SUV that looks more like a tank than anything else. I glance up at Mac, and he's regarding them with careful eyes. The engine on the SUV starts up and they start pulling out of the garage, followed closely by a white boat that's been attached to the back of the vehicle. We watch them as they turn out of the driveway and head east down the street. They're out of sight before my companion turns back to me.

"So," he says, hands in his pockets, "How do you feel about boats?"

"That depends," I reply and can't help but worry about where this morning is headed.

"On what?"

"The size of the boat and the circumstances that put me on it," I say and he laughs as though I'd just asked him why the sky is blue. "Just how much thought have you put into this?"

"I made a few arrangements," he admits. "Enough to get what I need."

"And what do you need?" I ask him.

"I'll know it when I see it," he says cryptically and I start to wonder why I even bother asking him questions when all he'll give me are riddles in return. I know, though, that whatever he has planned isn't going to be something I want to miss. So, I step away from him and wave my arm out.

"Lead the way," I instruct and he smiles, starting back down the sidewalk we came from. I shake my head, trying to shake the feeling of foreboding, and I can feel his eyes on me again.

"Don't look so excited," he says and I don't miss the irony.

"I'll try."

**A/N: This was kind of a filler chapter, obviously, but I hope it entertained anyway. Mac and Stella are about to have quite the adventure ahead of them. =) Any comments? Thanks—again—to Lily.**


	13. Something

**Author's Note:**

**Hello all! Sorry it took me a few days to get this one up, but I've been absolutely swamped at work as well as all my classes. I'm sure you all know how it goes. ;) In any case, here's the next little portion: It's something of a filler chapter--a way of getting from A to B--but there's some good informtion to be found. Let me know what you think!**

**Thanks again to Lily.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

"**Something"**

There's something about her—I just can't put my finger on it. It makes me want to smile even now, when she's frowning and looking like she can't make up her mind. I don't, though, because it would seem completely out of context and she'd most likely think I was laughing at her. And if there's one thing I _do _know about Stella Bonasera, it's that I really don't want her temper turned on me any more than it has to be. All today she's been on the peaceful side, almost congenial, and I want to keep it that way if at all possible.

I slant my eyes over to her every now and then as I drive, and I watch her stare out of the window. She's trying to figure out how she feels about this newest plan of mine, and I intend to give her all the space she needs while she makes her decision. She seems to have made up her mind when she turns back to me, the frown still pulling the corners of her mouth down and wrinkling her forehead.

"You know how to navigate a boat, right?" she asks simply, as though that had been her primary concern and I nod.

"I used to sail, before I joined the Corps," I offer and it's probably more personal information than I've ever offered of my own free will. "I grew up near the Great Lakes."

"Chicago?" she asks although we both know the question is a formality and nothing more.

"Great city," I confirm, "But I like New York better."

"Who doesn't?"

She goes back to looking out her window, and I put my attention back on the highway ahead of me. George Harrison is playing on the radio, and I turn it up a bit because I like the song. She doesn't say anything, but I can feel her smile a little bit on the opposite side of the car. I'm not one to sing aloud—not with anyone listening, anyway—but I mentally follow along; I know the song well.

_Something in the way…_

It doesn't take long to get to Port Newark, where I know for a fact that the Emiliano boys are headed. I had an idea yesterday after I talked to a friend I'd made in the DEA a couple of months ago, but seeing them leave with the boat just solidified my suspicions. The brothers aren't who I'm after, but hopefully they'll lead me to who I am after if I give them enough leg room. At least I have confidence in knowing that they have no idea I even exist; that special circumstance makes my job even easier.

I have a small building in my periphery that needs my attention, and so I park the car and give Stella the keys.

"Where are you going?" she asks, staring at what I've placed in her hands.

"Just over here for a few minutes," I reply. "I need you to take care of a few more things while I do this, if you don't mind."

"What?"

"There's a store right around the corner," I say, "We need to pick up a few things if we're going to keep up with the other boat. We've got some time, but it wouldn't hurt to be prepared."

"So, what do you want me to get?" she asks, "Jet fuel? Jet-skis?" She adds as an afterthought, "Life jackets?"

I laugh. "Not right now," I tell her. "Water and enough food for a day. A couple of flares wouldn't hurt, either."

"Are you planning on getting us shipwrecked or something?" she asks incredulously, staring at me with no small amount of scrutiny.

"Not intentionally," I joke but she's not laughing. Rather, she looks a little sick. "I'll meet you back at the car in twenty minutes."

She nods mutely and turns away, looking for the store. She's going in the right direction, so I don't interfere. I watch her for a few seconds, listening to the rhythm of her heels on the pavement, before shaking my head and leaving in the direction of a ramshackle building that looks like it's seen better days. Pale blue paint is slathered on the outside of it but has chipped away around the sides; courtesy, I'm sure, of a few strong storms. Knowing the owner the way I do, I must confess that I'm a little surprised to find it in a state of such disrepair.

The door gives way with barely a push, and I step into the dark room. I wonder for a minute if it's deserted before a gnarled voice calls out to me.

"You Taylor?" he asks me and I turn to face the voice.

Shocking gray hair is sticking out from under a hat that looks as old as the man himself. His face looks like tanned leather and his beard is reminiscent of Captain Ahab, but his eyes are bright and I can see the resemblance there more than anywhere else.

"Yes, I am," I answer and walk to where the older man is sitting in a corner of the shop. "You must be the Colonel's brother."

"Joseph Brand," he corrects and offers a hand. I take it and feel the calluses from years of work on freighters and oil rigs. "How is little Henry doing these days? I can't say I make it up to old Reagan as often as I should. I'm getting a bit slack in my brotherly duties."

I try not to smile at his use of "little Henry," but I can't help it. The twenty years I've known Colonel Brand would never have led me to such a nickname.

"He's fine," I reply, "Giving all the guys hell."

"As well he should," Joseph laughs, his voice echoing throughout the small building. "He learned from the best, that boy. He wouldn't have been nearly so intimidating if he didn't have me to push him around all those centuries ago."

"I'll keep that in mind," I joke and he gives me a beaming smile that makes it much easier to see the resemblance between the two brothers. "Did the Colonel talk to you already?"

"Sure did, and she's all ready for you," he says and turns away, walking back to a desk that's just as ragged as the rest of the building. I can see the front left edge of it tilting down; either from the weight of all the items on top of the desk or a leg's that's soon going to splinter. Either way, I have to wonder what kind of filing system Joseph is going to employ to put everything back in order when the desk finally does bite the dust.

"Well, she was, anyway," he says, scratching his beard and looking around the top of the desk. "I could have sworn those keys were around here somewhere. It wasn't but last night that Henry called me and I remember taking them out of the drawer and putting them right here on this desk so I wouldn't lose them."

"Good plan."

"It was when I thought of it," he says sarcastically and we both turn when the front door opens again, sending a bright ray of sunlight into the otherwise dim building. We both squint at the person opening the door, and it takes less than a second to realize that the halo of curls coming through the door is Stella.

"Well, I'll be," Joseph says from behind me and I turn to realize that his eyes are just as glued on her as mine were a few seconds before. He snatches his hat off his head, still staring, and reveals the bright bald patch at the top of his head. I try hard not to laugh, because I think this is the last thing the Colonel would have ever done when meeting Stella.

"There you are," she says and walks to stand next to me. "Everything you wanted is in the car."

"That was quick," I comment and she shrugs. "Stella, this is Joseph Brand."

She looks over at him and smiles. "As in Colonel Brand?"

"He's my little brother, ma'am," he says and does something that's between a nod and a bow. The semi-awkward motion makes Stella smile.

"So I see. Charm must run in the family," she says and I think Joseph might just fall over in shock. She offers him her hand. "I'm Stella Bonasera."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Bonasera," he says and holds her hand in his own for a few seconds before letting it fall and turning back to me. "The Colonel didn't tell me you'd have company or I would have tidied up a bit before handing over the keys. I thought this was business-related."

"It is," I'm quick to say before he manages to embarrass either of us. "Stella will be helping me for the duration."

"I'll bet she's real useful," he says and winks at Stella, who regards him with a warm smile. I look over at her and she shrugs. "If I could only find those keys you two could be on your way. I know they're around here somewhere…Ah! Here they are!"

He moves a giant harpoon out of the way, to mine and Stella's surprise, and throws some papers down on the floor before reaching for a tiny key ring. He holds it up with a triumphant smile and laughs.

"I _knew_ they were around here somewhere," he says and tosses the keys to me. "She's all gassed up, so you shouldn't need to worry about that unless you make the trip an all-nighter."

I ignore the heat creeping up my face.

"I'm sure we'll be fine," I say and I don't dare look over at Stella. "Our car is the black SUV in the parking lot, and we'll be sure to leave you the keys to the boat on the way out."

"Fine by me," Joseph replies. "I can't imagine being anywhere when you get back. I've got some filing to do."

Stella and I exchange glances.

"Of course," she says with an encouraging smile. "Is there a radio on the boat? In case we need to get in contact with you?"

He nods. "Yes ma'am. The frequency should come directly back to the radio I have here in the office, so just flip the switch and you'll have me."

"I think we're set, then," she says. "Mac? Anything else?"

"Which one is she?" I ask, holding the keys in my hand. They won't do me any good if I don't know which boat they go to.

"_Constance_ is at the end of the pier," he replies. "Henry and I named her for our mother."

"That's sweet," Stella replies. "Thank you for your help, Joseph. We'll see you later, on our way back in."

"It was no trouble at all, Miss Bonasera," he says, tipping his hat like he was in an old western. I offer a smile in thanks and he waves us off as we walk through the door and back into the sunlight. We're halfway back to the car when Stella turns to me.

"Wasn't he something?" she asks and I hear laughter in her voice.

"Yeah," I say. "He's something, alright."

_Constance_, as it turns out, is a lot bigger than I thought it would be. When Colonel Brand mentioned having a boat I could use I was expecting a little dingy with a motor and a decent sail. I wasn't going to tell that to Stella, of course, until it was absolutely necessary. Otherwise, she might not have been so willing to come with me. Right now she's standing next to me, a few bags and her gun in her hands. She's staring straight ahead, and I know exactly what's holding her attention so well.

Regardless of my expectations, _Constance _is something to behold.

The boat in front of me is huge and sparkling white, with a sail to match. The hull gleams in the sunlight, and from the dock we can see where the body of the ship leads down into a small cockpit. We step up onto the deck and look out over the water. The breeze is on the cooler side, but it's still early in the year to have perfect weather as far north as we are. I walk down the starboard side and Stella lets out a long breath.

"Oh, thank God."

I laugh. "What, you didn't trust me?"

"I was expecting a raft out of 'Gilligan's Island'," she says and steps down. "This I can deal with."

"I didn't know rafts came with keys," I say, holding up the small key ring Joseph gave me.

"I didn't dare hope."

"Come on," I say and look at the watch on my wrist. "If we want to catch up with our targets, we need to get moving."

She salutes. "Aye-aye, Captain."

"Funny," I reply and watch her come on board. "Any sailor jokes, though, and you're going overboard."

-----

"We're not exactly covert," I say, letting the cool wind ruffle my hair as we leave Port Newark behind us. Mac is steering and I'm leaning gently over the side, watching the water crash against the boat as we move forward.

"More so than you'd think," he says loudly over the waves. "We're not in Kevlar and DEA helmets, and our boat doesn't read 'Coast Guard,' so we're pretty well off the radar for these guys." He adjusts the sail and we go a little faster. "To anyone who happens to be looking, we're just two people on a boat."

"Clever," I reply. "What would two people on a boat be doing this time of day?"

He smirks.

"Enjoying the view, of course," he tells me and I smile. Newark isn't the most glorious city in the world, but right now it's perfect.

"And they wouldn't have jobs, either, I imagine," I joke.

"Nothing that demands too much of their time," he plays along and I find myself beaming at him. "But something that pays well enough for them to have _Constance _here to keep them company."

"Oh, obviously," I respond and pause to think. "Photographers, maybe; world renowned ones. They would have every reason to be out on a morning like this one."

He nods in agreement. "That would explain why they have cameras and binoculars in the bags down below."

"It would, wouldn't it?" I ask, and take note that he thought of this long before he brought me into the loop. "What are they photographing?"

"Maybe the water, other boats," he says and sends me a pointed glance, "Maybe other people who happen to come along."

"That makes sense," I say. "How far out?"

He squints his eyes and looks down at the cell phone in his hand which, I'm guessing, is equipped with some kind of GPS. The severe line of his mouth tells me that he's no longer joking; the playful smile is gone.

"A little while yet," he informs me. "I'll let you know when we're closer."

I nod and turn my eyes back out to the water. We're coming around a bend of land and an old tanker comes into view that doesn't look like it's seen a human hand in years. I stare at it, admiring the decrepit beauty of it, before turning my attention elsewhere. We're completely away from the port now; the only thing ahead of us is open ocean. The sun glints off the water and shines into my eyes, leading me to move the sunglasses I brought from my head to my face.

"You came prepared," he notes and I chuckle.

"Yeah, right," I say and turn back to the ocean. "If I was prepared I would have brought sun block."


	14. Murphy's Law PT I

**Author's Note:**

**As promised! I'm sorry it came a bit late, but you know how school and all that is. I hope you'll all forgive me. =)**

**Thanks, as always, to Lily and her satin pillow.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

"**Murphy's Law Pt. I"**

Almost an hour after leaving Port Newark behind us, Stella is still peering over the side of the boat and I'm still in charge of navigating _Constance_. I try to keep my eyes on the horizon and on the GPS in my hand, but it's harder than I thought it would be with the sun on her skin and a smile pulling up the corners of her lips. Silence is all that's standing between us now; the thought makes me wonder if I've lost my mind completely. It's been a long time since any woman has so thoroughly fascinated me, but I'm a fool for letting my thoughts wander there.

Luckily we're quickly approaching the intended coordinates, and my cell phone beeps to tell me as much. I would have noticed even without the GPS; the Emilianos' boat is just visible ahead of us. Stella turns toward the sound and questions me with nothing more than a slight furrowing of her brow.

"We're close," I say simply and she nods her head before getting off her seat.

I watch her walk below deck and return a few seconds later with a camera bag and the pair of binoculars. She keeps the binoculars for herself and hands me the camera, assuming the division of labor before I have the chance to say so. I turn the camera on and adjust the lens while she stares out over the water, coming to rest on the boat I'm sure she sees in the distance. The Emilianos are probably sitting around, waiting for their contact but I have no intention of sticking around that long. I'm here for a face to put with a name, and then I'm headed back to dry land.

"Who's the blond?" she asks, bringing the binoculars down to look at me. She offers them to me and I focus on the person she's referring to.

"If my information is correct, that should be Danny Stimpson," I reply and she gives me an incredulous look when she takes the binoculars back.

"Legs?" she asks me and I have no idea what she means. "It's Danny's nickname in all the drug circles. He was a track star in high school and outruns the cops when they come collect him."

I laugh. "You've never caught him?"

"I've never chased him," she explains. "Flack did once, but all he got out of the experience was a sprained knee and a stitch in his side."

"No Legs?"

"No Legs," she says.

"Well, at least I know he's the right guy," I say and adjust the lens on my camera to focus on the man. He's of average height and thin—something I would have thought was the result of drug use but has more to do with his past—and he has ratty blond hair that's pulled into a ponytail at the back. The green sweater he's wearing hangs off his frame like a potato sack, and I don't mind saying that I'm surprised to see it. I expected one of the biggest dealers in New York City to look a little more civilized.

"I had no idea Legs was connected," she tells me as I snap the first picture of the man in question.

"It's not really an ironclad arrangement, or so Corelli told me," I say and snap another picture. "The Benevutos just… outsource. Stimpson happens to be a relatively safe bet in that area. Good business man. No ambition, no greed."

"No brain cells," she adds sarcastically and I laugh.

I take a few more pictures before my gaze drifts over to her again. We've stopped the boat for the time being, but the slight breeze moving over the water catches her hair and lifts it gently off her shoulders and I find myself captivated by the sight. She's staring straight ahead through the binoculars that she's holding and a frown is tilting the edges of her mouth down. I'm glad she's otherwise distracted, because I would hate having to explain why I'm staring so shamelessly at her. Not that the idea stops me.

Before I can even tell what I'm doing, my hand brings the camera up to my face again. My eye goes to the window of the lens and it's Stella on the screen rather than Danny Stimpson. Possessed by something that I can't even begin to place, my finger presses the button down until I hear the shutter click and the picture is saved to the memory card of the camera. The noise is deafening to my ears despite the crash of the waves against the boat, but she doesn't seem to notice. She keeps staring at her quarry and when I pull the camera back, I can tell that she's frowning even deeper.

"Mac," she says uneasily and the sound shocks me out of my trance. "I think we have a problem."

"What?" I ask and she offers me the binoculars.

I look through them and find two pairs of binoculars looking back at me from the other boat. I see the men from across the water staring back at me and turning to each other to debate the identities of the people watching them. My chest constricts uncomfortably but I hide it well; I don't want Stella to know that I'm worried about what's going to happen in the next few minutes. I see them reach for what look like weapons and I drop the binoculars, deciding that it would be safer to act than to wait around to see what happened next.

"What's going on?" Stella asks me as I leave her standing on the deck to head down below, starting the engine once again. She's waiting for me at the top of the small set of stairs, an intensely worried look marring an otherwise beautiful face.

"Just hang on," I say and I'm right when I assume that the statement is clue enough that we're in a significant amount of trouble. She nods her head and goes back on deck to keep a lookout so that I know just how soon we going to have to deal with a situation that I hadn't planned for.

I hadn't intended to lead a chase today; most of my weapons were back at the house. I program the boat to turn around and head back the way we came at the fastest speed nautically possible. I instantly feel the pull of the boat's inertia, but _Constance _handles the orders like a dream. If I manage to get us out of this in one piece, I fully intend to thank Colonel Brand for her on bended knee.

When I'm sure that _Constance _understands her orders, I go back topside to find Stella staring uneasily at the boat coming up quickly behind us. _Constance _is fast, but whatever boat they're on is faster. They're gaining on us; it's not very quickly, but the difference is noticeable. I pull the binoculars away from my face and look down at Stella, who's looking out at the water like she's about to be thrown overboard.

"Those two people who are just enjoying the view," she starts and looks up at me, "Would they stop and make a stand, or would they look for higher ground?"

I'm not entirely sure how to answer the question.

"What do you think?" I ask her because I'm not going to make a decision that could end our lives without having her input. I can just barely hear gunfire in the distance—it's not close enough to be dangerous yet—and I know that's exactly what's on the line when we debate our plan of action.

"Higher ground sounds good," she says seriously and I nod.

"Higher ground it is."

I leave her to act as lookout and I head back down to the control room, checking to see that our course is set for the speediest retreat possible. _Constance _is running at full speed and since the air resistance is little to none, we're probably adding a little bit of extra speed to that. Despite that tiny advantage, the Emilianos will be catching up with us before we get to land. Even if we do better than I'm giving us credit for, a full-scale gunfight will ensue before we get to land and will most likely continue onto the dock. That's the last thing I want, and I curse myself because this was supposed to be one of the simplest parts of the plan.

Then I remember something, and a new plan forms itself in my head.

I run back up and find Stella standing at the back of the boat, her pistol in hand. I call to her and she turns around, her finger not leaving the trigger guard. I wave her over to me and motion for her to holster the weapon until I can tell her what I have in mind. She does so and crosses her arms across her chest while she listens. When I'm done her jaw drops a little and her hands come to rest on her hips.

"Are you out of your mind?" she cries and shakes her head. "No. No way. If something goes wrong, we're both dead and we have no way out."

"Nothing's going to go wrong," I assure her but the look on her face leaves no debate whatsoever that she's doubting my sanity.

"Mac…"

"Trust me," I say emphatically and she pauses a moment before nodding her head.

"Okay," she says wearily and looks back at the boat that's gaining on us faster than we've been giving it credit for. "What can I do?"

"Just stay below deck until I tell you it's safe," I instruct.

"What about you?" she asks quickly.

"Don't worry about me."

"Like hell," she scoffs. "I'm not going anywhere without you. We're in this together and it's going to stay that way." She looks at me pointedly. "No heroics. I mean it."

"I'll be fine," I tell her. "Give me a few minutes out here to finish navigating our route and then I'll be down with you."

"I mean it, Mac," she says and there's a fire in her eyes that takes me by surprise. "I'll shoot you and drag you down there if I have to."

"Isn't the point of this to avoid getting shot?"

"The shooter makes all the difference," she informs me and gives me a small smile. "Hurry up and do what you need to do."

She heads below deck and I turn away, giving our adversaries a quick glance before heading back to the front of the boat to adjust the sail. I hear gunshots in the distance and they're closer but not close enough to make me sweat just yet. There's a patch of land that should be coming up quickly if my memory serves, and just after that I'll see my destination. It takes a few minutes to see the land appear on the near horizon, but I'm grateful to find it where we left it.

After passing it, I adjust the sails to send _Constance _a little more significantly to the left. I leave the unimportant personal belongings on the deck to make my ruse a little more believable. I see the tanker coming up quickly just ahead of me and I know within a second that I'll need to reduce the boat's speed if I want us to survive the crash. This is the thought that's on my mind when machine gunfire shreds through the air and interrupts me. I turn around and find that the Emilianos are shooting from their own deck, but they're still a little too far to hit us. That small advantage won't be lasting for long. I give them one last look before heading back below deck.

I find the steps in barely a second and look down to see Stella curled up on the floor, holding the camera bag and her knees close to her chest. She looks relieved to see me, and I plan to try my hardest to ensure that her trust isn't misplaced. I step past her for just a moment to adjust the boat's speed to something significantly slower. I know we're close enough to the tanker now for it not to matter, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.

I fall to the floor next to Stella at the sound of gunshots that are much closer than I'm comfortable with. I pull her to me and she wraps her arms around my neck, pressing her face into my chest. She looks up at me with crystal clear green eyes that are full of something I recognize quickly as fear that's as tangible as the water surrounding the boat. The emotion isn't misplaced, but I'm much more hesitant in showing her mine.

"Ready?" I ask, knowing the question is useless.

All she can do is nod before I pull her closer against me and brace for the impact. It happens in a few of the shortest seconds of my life, and the force of the crash throws us both forward onto the floor. We're almost airborne for a moment or two, and I feel my shoulder hit the bottom step of the entryway. The pain is sharp, but the sudden surge of adrenaline that came just a few moments before dulls the majority of the pain. I hear the boat crumple in the wake of the collision and the tremors that rock _Constance _have me wondering if she'll be able to survive the crash along with us.

I wait for a few long seconds, clinging to Stella, and listening for our guests. I don't hear any guns going off and the boat is still, so I look down at the woman in my arms and look her over. Her cheekbone is red and a little swollen from where it hit the floor, but other than that she seems fine.

"You okay?" I ask and she nods her head.

"You?"

"Fine," I say. "Come on, we need to get up and out of here."

I stand up and pull her with me, releasing her only to take the camera bag from her and the sunglasses that—miraculously—managed to stay on her head. I pull the camera out of its case and hand it to her, keeping the bag for myself. She watches me do this but doesn't ask; I don't know if it's because she already has an idea what I'm trying to accomplish or because she's too stunned at this point to care.

"Come on," I say and reach for her hand. I half-drag her up the steps with me before she yanks away and heads back down the stairs. I want to ask what the hell she's doing when she runs to the control panel, frantically pulling wires. When she turns back around to face me, she's holding the small portable radio that Joseph promised us would be on the boat. I hadn't thought of it, and I'm glad she did. I had tunnel vision worrying about the immediate future, but she had thought a few steps ahead. She holds the radio close and follows me up the stairs, both our eyes surveying the damage as we come topside.

The front of _Constance _has crumbled and splintered with the impact, and pieces of the railing and hull litter the deck. Whatever belongings we left on the desk are now floating in the water surrounding the boat. Despite the carnage, I know that I accomplished what I wanted to do: Just a few feet above the deck's railing is the rusted door of the tanker that will lead us to safety. Before going to it, I throw the empty camera bag in the water along with Stella's sunglasses and she watches them float. I pull my shirt off and throw it into the water as well, creating the illusion that we've gone overboard. The t-shirt I still wear is black and is much more conducive to movement which, for the moment, is all I'm really worried about.

Confident that my illusion is in place, I turn back to Stella. She's chewing on her bottom lip and staring at the wreckage of the boat that was, just an hour before, perfect. I hear a motor in the distance, but if we move quickly our activities will be blocked by _Constance_'s sail. This in mind, I climb up the unsteady railing and reach for the door that is to become our escape. It's rusted almost completely shut and won't budge.

I keep trying but I find myself unable to open it. Moments later I feel Stella next to me and she's gripping the lever with me, adding her strength to mine in an attempt to wrench the door open. It takes a few seconds of trying but it finally gives way and opens to a cargo area. She wipes her hands on her jeans and steps down to grab the radio and the camera, tossing them in ahead of her. Her gun goes next, and I'm incredibly thankful in that second that I told her to bring it this morning.

Wordlessly she puts a hand on my shoulder and I offer her a leg-up; between the adrenaline and my natural strength I'm able to lift her through the door without batting an eye. When she's safely inside, she sticks her head back out the door and offers me a hand.

"Come on, it looks empty."

I nod and step up onto the railing, taking her hand and grabbing the bottom of the threshold with my other hand. I'm pulling myself up when I feel the railing buckle beneath me. I stop climbing and listen, watching Stella's face to see if she feels it too. I hear a splintering groan that momentarily stops my heart and seconds later her hand is gone from mine. I try to grab something—anything—to stop my descent but it's no use. I land hard on the bottom part of the deck, and then I'm falling into freezing cold water that's suffocating me. The shock itself almost kills me and it feels like I'm being pulled down even farther before my head breaks over the surface of the water. I hear Stella screaming down to me, but it's useless against the roaring of blood in my ears.

I start swimming toward _Constance_ with the intention of pulling myself back onboard for a second try before I realize that the roaring I'm hearing isn't blood: it's the Emilianos' approach onto the scene. Their boat is almost on top of us, and I know that climbing back onboard is going to get me killed faster than staying in the freezing ocean. My eyes flick to Stella, who's hearing the same thing I am and looking at me with an expression that's a mixture of fear and uncertainty. I motion for her to close the door and she gives me a worried look before nodding her head and complying. I watch the door close before swimming away from _Constance _and hiding in the shadows provided by the tanker.

Seconds later, a boat stops on the other side of the deck and I watch as the Emilianos climb across. They're armed with machine guns and very angry looks that only get worse as their eyes survey the damage of the crash. The tall one kicks a piece of wood out of his way and he curses.

"Bastard crashed the damn boat," he says to his brother. "Must have been too freaked out to pay attention to where he was going."

"I don't think they're DEA," the shorter one replies after surveying the belongings left on the deck. "They've got a cooler here, a couple of sandwiches. No guns, no warrants."

"So, what?" the other asks. "They're just sight-seers?"

"Looks like it," he agrees. "Don't worry about it, though. It's not our fault they can't drive their own boat. We didn't crash it, they did."

"Yeah, you're right," the tall one says and scratches his chin a little. I watch him walk over to the side of the boat, avoiding the parts of the deck that have been torn away. He looks out over the water and I duck a little more behind the cover of the tanker, just barely peering around the corner. His eyes move over his surroundings before he scratches his chin again and turns away to face his brother.

"We should torch it, just in case," the short one says. "They'll rule it an accident, anyway. Better safe than sorry."

"Good call. Did we bring gasoline?"

"Don't we always?"

"Let's do it, then," they say and shout orders for gasoline and a lighter to the other boat. In a few minutes I start to smell the fuel as it's being poured onto the deck, and seconds later I see the first few licks of flame as they spread across the length of the boat. I watch _Constance _begin to burn and I feel a hint of regret as the fire consumes her back half. I listen intently as the Emilianos go back to their own boat, laughing and cursing. They're not stupid, I realize; fire had only been set to the cockpit and the back half of the boat so not to corner them. It's a good plan, and it gives me a very small window of opportunity.

I listen to them speed away, the motor fading into the distance, and I'm wondering how long I'll be able to survive in the freezing cold water without a way of getting onto the other boat. I watch the flames devour _Constance _and I tread water, knowing that my odds aren't very good.

**A/N: Am I totally cruel to leave it there? I was fully intending on having it be one chapter, but it was incredibly long so I split it up. Let me know what you think! (Hint: a writer with reviews is a happy—and therefore more productive—writer.)**


	15. Murphy's Law PT II

**Author's Note:**

**Finally! Sorry to keep you all waiting, but you know how life gets in the way. It happens to all of us. This chapter ended up being extremely long, but I'm sure you won't mind. ;) Please let me know what you think, because I'm running on reviews at the moment. lol**

**Thanks to Lily, who's traded in her satin pillow for a velvet one and still made the time to be a magnificent beta.**

**Chapter Fifteen**

"**Murphy's Law Pt. II"**

I watch Mac's hand slip out of mine and I grasp at the thin air left in his absence. He falls in slow motion, and I hear my own voice shouting. I can't comprehend the words. I watch, helpless, as he slides down the side of the ship and lands amidst the debris. It can't hold his weight, though, and crumbles beneath him. He hits the water and goes under, and I swear that for a long moment my heart goes deathly still. Years seem to pass before his head comes back up and he pulls in a long breath.

"Are you okay?" I call down to him but he looks up at me like he doesn't understand what I'm saying.

I'm about to repeat myself when the sound of a quickly approaching boat catches my ears. There's no doubt in my mind who will be on it, and I look down at Mac to see what he wants me to do. I feel completely out of my element here, and I'm trusting him to lead me in the right direction. He makes a motion with his hands and mouths, _Close the door_. I hesitate because I don't want to leave him out there, but he does it again even more vehemently and I have no choice. I give him my best encouraging smile and close the door, wrenching the lever over to keep it locked from the outside world. That simple motion keeps the Emilianos out but it keeps Mac out, too.

After I'm locked in I lean back against the door and let my breath escape for the first time in a very long time. The last thirty minutes of my life feel more like years taken right off the top, and I'm still not completely out of the woods. Drug dealers with machine guns are waiting just outside this door, and Mac is stuck in the water. The phrase "sitting duck" comes to mind but I banish the thought before it starts a panic attack that I won't be able to vanquish. Mac can take care of himself; if there's one thing I know about him, it's that. This is the hope that I cling to when I pick up the radio, the camera, and my gun from the floor.

The cargo space that I've let myself into is small and dank from years of misuse, but there's another door at the end of it that demands my attention. I attach my holster back to the waistband of my jeans and cradle the radio and camera in one hand while I shove the other shoulder against the rusted door. Combined with the pressure of my body weight and the force I'm placing on the door's handle, it takes only a few moments of trying before the door swings open and dumps me into a smaller hallway. My knees get the brunt of the fall, but it's just another minor injury to add to the collection I've got going. I'm going to look like a human soccer ball tomorrow, if I ever get there.

A quick exploration of the hallway leads me to a small barracks, and I'm quick to shut myself inside it. I dump the camera and the radio on the mattress and turn my attention almost immediately to the small porthole that sits on the opposite wall of the tiny room. The tanker is soundproof, and I hate not being able to hear what's going on outside. I won't hear gunshots and I won't hear what happens to Mac. He's out there alone, but if there's anything I can do from here I will.

I swing the porthole's door inward and instantly smell smoke coming from outside. I hear men's voices coming from below and I listen, but it's too quiet for me to make out words. It's obvious, though, that it's _Constance _that's burning. I hear the flames tearing into the wood into cinders and I mourn a little for her. She's a boat, I know, but the connection is there. She was probably the only reason Mac and I have survived this long, but now it's up to us and that simple fact has my breathing labored and a cold sweat lacing my palms. I don't know what's happened to him—if he's alive in the water somewhere or trapped on a burning boat—but I have hope that he can reach me, and that we can get the hell out of here.

I pull a chair up to the wall and climb on top of it, straining to see over the lip of the porthole. My eyes rest on smoke billowing on the wind, and it prevents me from seeing anything else. The men's voices are gone now, and I hear the sound of the motor fading quickly into the background to be replaced by the sound of the inferno raging outside. My mouth goes dry as a result of the smoke or my frantic thoughts, I'm not sure, but I pull the porthole closed again to keep the acrid air out and I jump off the chair. Debating my actions for just a moment, I leave my gun on my hip and abandon the camera and the radio with every intention of coming back for them later.

Pulling the door open, I step out into the hall and head back the way I came. The cargo space is easy to find; I feel incredibly alone as I go back to it, listening to my footsteps echo off the sterile steel walls. My thoughts are ricocheting just as frantically and it's no comfort to me whatsoever when I open the door and the view outside is completely obscured by smoke. I cough a bit after taking my first breath; the only solution I can see to this is pulling my shirt over my mouth. Heat is pouring through the door in waves, and I wave some of the smoke away before calling out for Mac.

I don't get an answer, and my heart jumps instantly into my throat. My eyes are watering and it burns to breathe, but I can't force myself to give up and close the door. Mac is versatile—seemingly invincible amongst mere mortals—and there's no way something's happened to him now, of all times.

"Mac!" I call out again, inwardly pleading to hear his voice above the chaos. "Mac, can you hear me?"

"I can now," his voice informs me and I whirl around. He's standing out in the hallway, dripping wet and shivering. My breath catches in my chest and before I can consider an alternate plan of action I'm throwing myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He's cold and soaked through, but I don't care.

"Oh, thank God," I finally rasp, my voice mildly damaged from breathing in the smoke from _Constance_. "You're okay."

"I've been worse," he whispers against my ear and I pull away, suddenly shocked by my behavior.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out and don't give him a chance to respond. "How did you get up here? The boat is gone."

"There was a ladder on the other side of the ship," he explains simply and I nod.

"We've got to get out of here. They could come back."

"You're not wrong," he says, considering the idea.

"I rarely am," I say dryly and lead him out of the cargo hold. He follows me down the tiny corridor and I lead him back to the barracks where I'd left the few items that survived the crash along with us. The camera sat unobtrusively on a mattress that had seen its fair share of bodies while the radio was wrapped and tangled in wires that protruded from several places around the device. I watched as Mac's eyes surveyed each of them, pleased that his objective hadn't been completely ruined.

"My phone is at the bottom of the ocean floor," he tells me roughly. "I don't suppose you have a signal, do you?"

"You must be joking," I reply, staring at my phone's screen. "I barely had a signal after we left Manhattan, much less out here."

"I figured as much," he says and reaches for the radio. "I don't suppose you paid attention to the wires as you were ripping them out of the wall?"

I grin. "I might have some recollection, if you can find me a power source."

"I'll get a hamster wheel if it will get us out of here," he says flatly but I laugh anyway; I'm just glad to see him in working order. He looks back out toward the hallway and then back at me, his eyes slow and appraising. I try not to stiffen, because I know he'd notice.

"Are you okay, Stella?" he asks me, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"I should be asking you that," I say incredulously, unwillingly playing back the images of watching him fall into the water just a few minutes before.

"I'll have my share of bruises," he assures me. "You?"

"I'll be sore," I admit and let out a long breath. I lean my back up against the wall and I feel at least twice my age. I'm sure it's the oldest I've ever allowed myself to feel. When I look back at Mac, he's studying me harder than he would have if I was under a microscope. I'm sure we both look worse for wear, but right now all I can consider is the fact that we're both breathing.

"Do I need to call in to work?" I ask him slowly and neither of us pretends that the question isn't a pretense for something else. He considers the question before slowly shaking his head.

"No," he says sternly. "We're leaving soon."

"Then lead the way," I say and he raises an eyebrow.

Of course it wouldn't be that easy.

An hour later, we're both unbearably hot in the tiny control room and staring at the radio in front of us. The red power light is blinking unsteadily, along with the light bulb swinging rhythmically above our heads. The generator Mac found turned on—much to our delight—but only seems to have acquired enough juice to run both the light and the radio in sporadic bursts. Sometimes they're on, sometimes they're not. Occasional static comes through, but it never lasts. Every time I pick up the handset for the device it cuts out, leaving us just as stranded as we were.

"Are you sure you hooked up the generator correctly?" I ask, focusing intently on the blinking red light.

"It didn't explode, did it?" he asks pointedly and I scoff.

"Don't give it any more ideas."

"Maybe we're taking up unnecessary power," he offers and I turn to look at him.

"Unnecessary power?" I ask as though he's just mentioned jumping the ship and swimming back to shore. "We have a blinking light and a radio that won't hold its charge. If that's too much power we don't have a chance."

"The light could go," he says and I scowl. "You don't need a light to work the radio, Stella. Even if it gives us a little more juice, we only need a few seconds to tell Joseph where to find us."

He's right, of course.

"Okay, kill the light."

A quick tug on the chain extinguishes the already unsteady light source and then we're surrounded by darkness punctuated by the now steady red light of the radio.

"I guess you were right," I say, reaching for the hand set.

"Could I get that in writing?"

I laugh.

"Alright, funny guy," I say and bring the small microphone up to my mouth. "Let's see if it does us any good." I press the button on the side and try to speak as loudly and clearly as possible. "Joseph?"

Silence.

"Joseph, if you're there, pick up. It's Stella."

It's another long moment of static that answers me and I sigh, dejected. All this work to get the damn thing to hold power, and now the man isn't even at his post. I feel Mac step a little closer to me, but I'm blind in the dark room. I feel his hand rest on the back of my chair and I unconsciously lean back, touching him. I clear my throat and pretend that it's for the sake of the boat rather than the warmth his skin left behind on mine.

"Joseph?" I ask again. "Joseph, we need help."

More static.

I'm about to give up completely and resign myself to dying on this ship before the static picks up in intensity and a squeal announces life at the other end of the line.

"What kind of help are we talking about, Miss Bonasera?" His voice rattles across miles of water and I laugh loudly, unbearably relieved to hear him.

"The best kind," I answer. "We're stranded."

"What happened to _Constance_?" he asks and I turn to look at Mac before realizing that I can't see him in this kind of darkness. Luckily he seems to pick up on my loss for words and I feel him reach out, taking my wrist in his hand before working up to take handset for the radio. His grasp leaves behind trails of fire and I shiver, telling myself that it's perfectly fine to be cold on a rickety old ship. It could happen to anyone, right?

"Joseph, it's Mac Taylor," he offers and I'm grateful for the fact that he'll be explaining _Constance_'s demise instead of me. "Stella and I ran into a few problems and _Constance _got caught in the crossfire." He pauses. "Emphasis on the 'fire' part."

"That had better be a damn joke, Taylor," he replies gruffly. "I told you we named that boat after our mother, didn't I?"

"You did, sir," Mac answers and I can hear his Corps training coming to light. "It was unavoidable. _Constance _saved our lives."

There's a long pause over the line, and I can almost see Joseph sighing and shaking his head.

"Where are you?"

Mac gives a tentative set of directions, but Joseph seems to know exactly where he's going even if we haven't the faintest clue ourselves. A minute later the radio is off and the light is back on, giving us the ability to move around without any unnecessary touching. The rational part of me is grateful, but there's a yearning underneath it all that makes me nervous. Desperate to get myself out of this whirlwind that's taken me hostage, I walk out of the small control room and back down the hallway.

There's a staircase at the very end of the corridor that we'll climb up to reach the cargo area. I go up first, careful to keep an eye on my surroundings in the off chance that our visitors have returned. The floor is as empty as I hoped, and I offer Mac my hand as he comes up the remainder of the steps to pull himself the rest of the way. The cargo hold door is open and the camera is waiting there for us, though neither of us has looked at the contents yet.

Mac reaches for it and pulls it around his neck protectively before turning to give me an inquisitive look.

"Do you want to go topside or do you want to wait in here?" he asks me and it takes me less than a second to answer.

"I want the hell out of here," I say, feeling cabin fever beginning to seep in the edges of my perception. "Where are we going to go?"

"There's a deck at the very top of the ship," he tells me as we leave the cargo hold behind. "I had to use it to get back down here. We'll be able to see Joseph coming and we'll use the back ladder to get us down."

A few minutes later, he opens a small hatch and cool air flies down at me. It feels like a godsend. Mac climbs out first and offers me a hand, pulling me the rest of the way. The afternoon sun burns my eyes for the barest moment before they adjust. The air still smells of smoke, but I no longer see or hear the source of it. The _Constance _is gone now, completely, and I feel a little for her. Joseph didn't sound too happy, either, and I don't blame him one bit. Mac seems to read my thoughts and he offers a shrug.

"It was all we could do," he says simply.

"Yeah, I know."

He leads me down the length of the ship until we're facing northwest, toward the shore. He takes a seat on the ground and I follow suit, folding my legs under me while still managing to keep a safe distance away from the man next to me. It's getting to be late afternoon now, the sun is just beginning to set, and I haven't the slightest idea when we'll be back in the city. It seems surreal now that just this morning I was drinking coffee and debating what I was going to wear.

"Remind me never to follow you off land ever again," I tell him suddenly and he looks over, surprised. "You're bad luck."

He laughs.

"I didn't use to be," he remembers. "I guess I'm out of practice."

"Yeah, well, the next time you feel like practicing leave me out of it," I scoff and he just smiles that enigmatic smile of his, making me wonder what else he could possibly have in mind after a boat chase and a shipwreck.

-----

Joseph's boat reaches us nearly an hour later, and we wave him around to the back of the boat. Mac sends me first and Joseph takes my hand, pulling me down into the small boat that's waiting for us.

"You're shaking like a leaf, Miss Bonasera," he says and reaches behind him for a blanket that he quickly wraps around my shoulders. "It gets cold on the water once the sun starts going down." He shoves a thermos in my hands. "Get some coffee in you. It'll warm you up right quick."

"Thanks," I say and watch Mac step down into the boat. His legs are longer than mine, so Joseph's help isn't required. The man looks Mac over and gives him a lopsided grin.

"You decide to take a swim, Taylor?" he asks and we both laugh.

"Something like that," Mac answers and looks down at me. "I'm sorry about _Constance_, Joseph. It was all Stella's idea."

My jaw drops.

"I cannot believe you would blame this on me," I say incredulously, my voice raising an octave despite the amused smile on both men's faces. "You decide to pull some macho stunt and you blame it on me? I don't think so."

"Hey, Taylor," Joseph says, elbowing Mac lightly. "I don't think she's happy."

"No, I don't think she is," Mac says, crossing his arms over his broad chest and looking me in the eye. "Let's get her home. I don't want her to hurt anyone."

-----

The voyage back to Port Newark is much longer than the one we'd taken away from it, mainly because our vessel of choice is a lifeboat at best. It's a shoebox with a motor but it works well enough to put the wreckage of _Constance _behind us. It's almost dark now but Joseph seems to know the water as well as I know Fort Reagan. Stella is sitting directly behind him and she's yawning every few minutes; I'm sure she's as exhausted as I am. She clutches the blanket around her shoulders and I see her shiver. I'm freezing—my clothes are still wet—but the coffee in my hand is enough for the time being.

Lights are burning bright for us as we make our way back, and I can see that a dark figure is standing at the end of the dock. Joseph says nothing as we get closer, so I have no choice but to believe that we both know who the man is. Colonel Brand is standing stick-straight and I can't tell if he's furious or in shock. Either is entirely possible, and neither is completely undeserved of me. Joseph pulls the boat up to shore and the Colonel walks down to meet us, offering Stella his hand as she climbs out of the boat. She offers him a smile and I hang back, watching their exchange.

"Colonel Brand," she says breathlessly as she steps onto solid ground.

"Detective," he replies, bowing his head slightly. "Lovely weather we're having."

Stella barks out a laugh and I smile at the sound.

"Yeah, something like that."

Joseph climbs out of the boat next and gives his brother a fierce hug. If I didn't know beforehand, the sight convinces me even further of their familial ties. Joseph goes to stand beside him and they all look down at me, waiting for me to climb out. Stella's just looking at me and wondering why I'm glued to the spot, but Joseph and the Colonel understand completely why I'm reluctant to move. It looks and feels like an ambush, but I don't seem to have much of a choice.

"Colonel Brand," I say, stepping out of the boat and onto the shore. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You know damn well why I'm here," he says sternly but there's an undercurrent of humor there that I wouldn't have been able to detect if I hadn't known him as well as I do. "What is it with you and blowing things up? Is it me? Do I bring it out in you?"

"I don't know what you mean," I say and hold my ground directly in front of him.

"Oh, spare me the ignorance," he blusters. "It was in Beirut. We were trying to get out of enemy territory, and the only damn distraction you could think up was to lose our only transportation!"

Stella snickers. "I'm detecting a pattern here."

"What do you mean?" the Colonel asks, turning to her.

"That's beside the point," I say, turning their attention back to me. "You'd been moaning all week long about that humvee and its bad axles, and it would have gotten us found a hell of a lot faster than going on foot."

"So what does he do?" the Colonel asks Stella and Joseph, obviously enjoying his turn at storytelling. "He rigs the damn thing to explode! But he sets the timer wrong, so it knocks us clear on our asses before we're even fifty feet away."

"We would have gotten farther if you hadn't gotten stuck with that bum leg," I counter and he stares incredulously at me.

"I was shot, you bastard," he says indignantly and I'm sure he's come up with more to curse at me for before Stella steps in.

"I'm so sorry about _Constance_, Colonel," she says, placing her hand gently on his forearm. Instantly he calms and gives her a small smile. "I know what she must have meant to you, but she saved our lives. I know we have you to thank for that."

Charmed, Colonel Brand places his hand over hers and shakes his head.

"We're certainly sorry to lose her," he says solemnly, "But it would have been much worse if it were you. And, I guess, Mac."

I raise an eyebrow. "Is that forgiveness I hear?"

"The closest you'll ever get to it," he returns and offers a hand. I take it and he pulls me against him in a very brief hug. I'm shocked, but I understand the sentiment. "Stop trying to get yourself killed, Mac, or I'll do the honors myself."

I nod. "Yes, sir."

"Come here, the both of you," Joseph says and walks back up toward the parking lot. "I'll look you over before you get on the road."

"I think we're both fine," Stella argues but the Colonel sends her a sharp glance. She quickly adds, "Sir."

"You destroyed the boat I named after my dearly departed mother," he says dramatically, following his brother up the short path. "The least you can do is allow me to further ensure your safety. Once the adrenaline calms down, you may not feel so good."

"Wow," Stella marvels, "That was some guilt trip."

"Thank you," the Colonel replies. "I learned from my mother."

Thirty minutes later, Stella and I are given a clean bill of health and we're headed back to the city with instructions to never call the Colonel again—no matter what we need. I laugh and give him my word, but we both know that he'll be the first person I call if ever I need another favor. It's a relationship that I greatly appreciate and rarely take for granted. Both men instruct Stella as we leave to watch her back, but they're not nearly as surreptitious as they think they are, and she replies with a wink and a promise that she'll do her best. They wave us off and we head back toward the city.

The drive is a short one but Stella is asleep within minutes of buckling herself in. I let her sleep and force my own eyes to stay open so I can get her home in one piece. My exhaustion is much easier to fight when it's her that's depending on me and that revelation isn't a surprise. I've always been the type to put the well-being of others before my own, and I don't expect to lose that quality any time soon. This is what draws my eyes back to her again and again as I drive. Her sleep is restless, and I can tell it wouldn't take much to wake her up.

So, rather than play the radio, I keep a steady eye on her as we travel back toward New York. I listen to the sound of surrounding traffic and that of her steady breathing as I weave in and out of the lanes. She moves in her seat once or twice, but for the most part she's entirely still. It takes a little while, but finally we're parked in front of her apartment and I'm turning over in my seat to face her. I know I need to wake her up, but I'm relatively certain this is the most peaceful I've ever seen her. Her face is soft and unlined in the light coming from the streetlamps, and her hair has fallen from the rubber band that's held it up for most of the evening.

Without really thinking about it I lean over the console and brush the stray curls away. She stirs at my touch and I withdraw my hand as her eyes flutter open, surprising me with the emerald green. She focuses on my face and a tiny smirk graces her lips.

"Are we there yet?" she asks and I laugh.

"Yeah, you're home," I say softly, though I'm not sure why. "Do you want me to walk you up?"

"No… no, it's okay," she says and sits up, yawning. "I'll be fine."

"You're sure?"

"Of course," she says and studies my face. "You look like hell."

"You're too kind," I say with a short laugh.

"If you need to crash here, you're more than welcome," she says hesitantly and I wonder if she's serious about the offer. I can't accept, of course, but it matters that she would care enough to ask.

"No, I'll be alright," I say and look back out at the windshield. "You go up and get some rest."

"Are you okay?" she asks and leans over onto the armrest that separates us.

"Always."

"I don't believe you," she says skeptically and I have no idea what it is she's looking for when she observes me so closely. "Are you hurt? Did Joseph miss something?"

"No, nothing like that," I say and surprise myself with the words.

"Then what is it?" she asks again. "I know that look, Mac. Something's bothering you."

I have no idea how she might have come to know my expressions so well, but I don't question her. She's an incredibly intelligent woman and I don't dare doubt the powers that that entails.

"I'm sorry," I find myself saying despite the fact that the words hadn't yet occurred to me. "For everything."

She frowns. "What are you sorry for?"

"I've almost gotten you killed twice in two days," I say and I feel the weight of the words resting heavily on my shoulders. "It's my fault—I put you in harm's way. For that I'm sorry. This was my plan and you're the one who's suffering for it."

"We're both fine," she says and her hand is resting on my arm. "This was my choice, and I stand by it. I knew what I was doing when I agreed to help."

"Did you?" I ask. "Did you know what kind of trouble you were getting yourself into?"

"The first time we met, you handcuffed me to a ladder," she says with a laugh. "I'm pretty sure it was obvious after that."

"I guess I should apologize for that, too," I say and her eyes pull me a little closer in; the sensation is a bit like gravity.

"You shouldn't apologize for any of it, Mac," she says earnestly and I try to look away before her hand forces my head back to face her. "No matter what's happened, you've saved me both times in those two days. That has to mean something to you."

"You didn't need my interference, Stella," I say honestly, leaning in a little closer to her than was necessary. "You would have handled it yourself."

"I'm sure I could have, but I didn't have to," she replies. "I appreciate your concern and I admire your chivalry, but I make my own decisions. I always have and I always will. You don't have to feel responsible for me."

I grin despite myself. "That's what I like about you," I say, unaware that I've spoken until the words are hanging in the air between us. "You're strong, and you're stubborn."

"Yeah, I am. And don't forget it," she says with the hint of a smirk.

I can't help but smile, glancing down at her hand for the briefest of moments. I look back at her and suddenly it seems that she's barely a breath away. Her hand is gripping my forearm, holding it firmly in her grasp. My eyes can't seem to leave hers and somewhere my brain is shouting that what I'm doing is entirely wrong. The voice is quickly silenced when Stella's hand moves from my forearm and travels upward, ending with her palm resting against my jaw. It guides me gently down and I can feel her warm breath on my lips before it's replaced with her own.

She's soft yet demanding, and it takes a second for my brain to catch up with my body. When it does I lean forward and pull her closer to me, wondering if it's possible for my heart to beat completely out of my chest as it ricochets against my ribs. Heat radiates from her in waves and I feel like I'm lost in the tide, clinging desperately to her for fear of drowning. My hands weave themselves through the locks of her hair and I feel her moan quietly against my lips, sending my heart rate through the roof. I get the feeling that I'm nowhere near close enough when I feel her teeth tug gently at my bottom lip and she soothes the worried skin with a sweep of her tongue. I taste her, very briefly, before pulling away and looking into her flushed face and clouded eyes.

I realize in that moment that she's my undoing.

She holds my face in her hand still as her eyes search me for an answer that I'm not sure I have. The idea of coherent thought is still a bit hazy, but I know that it's no small thing that's just happened. I could apologize and bow out, I know, but the warm look in her eyes stops me before I have the chance to finish the thought.

She slides her lips over mine once more for a split second before sighing and giving me a shy smile that I was never sure she was capable of.

"I have to go up now," she tells me and it takes a moment to process the information. "I have work in the morning. The lab doesn't sleep just because I'm not there."

"Yeah," I say and my voice is rougher than I remember.

"Goodnight, Mac," she says softly and kisses me again, jumpstarting my already frantic heart.

"Sleep well, Stella," I whisper.

She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the door before turning back to look at me.

"I can only assume you'll be informing me of your next undercover mission," she says with a smirk.

"I'll find you," I respond robotically and she gives me another stunning smile before shutting the car door and walking up to the front of her building. She waves me off from the doorstep and I make sure she's safely inside before restarting the car. It takes a few deep breaths before my head is clear enough to pull into the swarm of traffic.

I have a feeling, though, that my heartbeat won't be slowing down for some time.

**A/N: Ah! The first kiss! Will it be the last? lol Let me know what you think. ;)**


	16. Spare the Details

**Author's Note:**

**The feedback on that last chapter was absolutely outstanding! I loved hearing from you all, so I'm posting this one a little sooner than I expected. I wrote it a lot faster, because I'm a happy writer with lots of reviews. =) So, I hope you enjoy!**

**Lily keeps trading her pillows in for better models, so I have no idea what to go with anymore. =) **

**Chapter Sixteen**

"**Spare the Details"**

I don't know what does it.

It may have been the remorseful look that darkened his already startling blue eyes, and it could have been the way his voice got a little lower when he said my name. I consider briefly the way his damp shirt clings to the muscles of his abdomen, but I like to think that I'm not quite shallow enough for that alone to spur me into action. Whatever the cause, I know it's entirely my doing when my hand drifts from his arm to his face. I'm all too connected to my body as I direct him closer to me, and within seconds I feel the raw bolt of energy that tears through me when our lips finally meet.

I'm sure I've taken him by surprise, but it takes barely a moment before he reacts. His arms reach out and take me in and I'm empowered somehow, daring to give more to him than I have to anyone in a long time. I give a low moan when he fists my curls in his hands, pulling gently. It seems only to spur him on and I lean into his touch, losing myself for a few long moments that I want to last forever. I know it can't, though, even when I nip lightly at his lip and he makes a sound low in his throat that vibrates through the rest of his body and makes the tips of my fingers tingle.

I'm the one that finally pulls away, and my head is elsewhere while the blood rushes readily to my face. I feel his eyes on me but I don't see the concentration that's usually so at home there; for once, I don't know that he's thinking. It takes a moment, but I see the beginnings of doubt start to flicker over his face. He has to know that I don't regret this, as irresponsible as it may be, so I kiss him again to make my feelings clear. I feel absolutely brazen when I look at him, but I can't help the smile that stretches the corners of my mouth.

"I have to go up now," I tell him. "I have work in the morning. The lab doesn't sleep just because I'm not there."

"Yeah," he replies simply and it doesn't sound much like he understood what I was telling him. I know the feeling, so all I can do is kiss him again.

"Goodnight, Mac," I say and move to get out of the car.

"Sleep well, Stella," he says and I get a slight shiver at his use of my name.

"I can only assume you'll be informing me of your next undercover mission?" I ask because he looks like he could use a reminder.

"I'll find you," he tells me and it's a response that I can take solace in. He means it, I know, so until then I'll just have to go about life as usual despite the fact that nothing about my life was usual anymore.

I get out of the car and walk around the car to the doorstep of my building. When I turn back to wave goodbye, he's still staring at me and I can see the wheels in his mind beginning to move. He's definitely thinking now, and I have no idea what conclusion he'll be coming to. I don't know what conclusion I'm going to be coming to, for that matter.

I go back into my building and head up to my apartment, waiting for the wheels of my own brain to creak back into motion.

-----

I'm smiling when I wake up, and I'm so sore that I have no idea why. My wrist and left hip smart a bit when I roll over to cut off the alarm that's blaring at a volume that's almost deafening, and my cheek feels a little worse for the wear. It isn't until I run my hand through my hair that the previous night comes back to me in a flood of words and sensation, and I'm smiling a little wider the next time I open my eyes.

My fingers go to my lips and I could swear that I feel him again—it's ridiculous, I know, and it was probably a stupid idea. It seemed right at the time, and I can't take it back no matter how much I pretend to regret it. I don't know what any of it means—or if it means anything—but that's an argument for another time. Until it's absolutely necessary, I'm not killing this buzz.

I hum as I get ready for the day, and it's something that doesn't happen very often. Despite my utterly hellish day yesterday, today I'm rested and bright-eyed. I pick a pale green shirt that accents my eye color and a pair of slacks that are functional as much as they are stylish. There are days when I feel like burning every piece of clothing I own, and there are days when I love everything I set eyes on. Today would be one of the latter.

The coffee I make is wonderful—I add cream—and I find that I've left myself enough time to make a small breakfast. A bagel seems just the thing, and moments later it's toasted and covered in cream cheese that smears my lipstick. A few minutes after I've eaten, I'm grabbing my badge and heading for the door.

The lab is bustling with activity exactly as I left it two days before and a few of the lab techs nod hellos at me as I make my way toward the office. I cringe when I realize that my paperwork has multiplied in my days off and surprisingly the thought doesn't devastate me as much as I thought it would. I'll be putting it off another day, of course, but it happens. I have much more important things to obsess over.

A few moments after I sit my bag down, Lindsay walks into the office with a bright smile on her face. This isn't at all unusual for her, especially since she and Danny have decided to try an engagement ring on for size. Now the ring is hidden in the pocket of her long white lab coat, which tells me that she's been in a little longer than me. Usually I pride myself on showing up first and leaving last, but today I don't seem to be upholding that title.

"Good morning," she tells me and takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk. The chair is reserved for her, most days. Flack either steals my chair or sits on the desk itself, Hawkes stands in the doorway—as do Adam and Danny—and Sid generally pulls up a chair next to mine if he has a particularly gruesome fact that he feels compelled to share with me. Today Lindsay is the only one that's bothered to seek me out and to tell you the truth, I'm a little happy to see her. It's been a long two days.

"It is, isn't it?" I finally answer and sit on the solitary corner of my desk that isn't littered with paperwork. "How are you this morning?"

Lindsay just stares at me, stunned.

"Who are you and what have you done with my boss?"

"What? Can't I be cheerful every now and then?" I ask, feigning offense.

"Sure," she admits, "But rarely before noon. Even then, it's a toss-up."

"Well, not today," I say and let out a long breath, folding my hands in my lap. "How were the last two days? Anything interesting happen?"

"Sheldon fell in a dumpster," she says thoughtfully. "Other than that, no."

"Sounds like a good time," I say, laughing. "Danny must have enjoyed it."

"I think he was just thankful it wasn't him," she replies, laughing with me. "What about you? What did you do with your days off?"

I want to laugh and tell her about the mobster, the boat chase, and the mind-blowing kiss that have been occupying my thoughts since I first opened my eyes this morning, but I can't. I will eventually, but it's not safe for the time being.

"I got some sun," I say nonchalantly, "Did a little spring cleaning. Nothing too spectacular."

"Better than working through another weekend, I guess," she says. "You look good, though. Refreshed." She pauses, studying me. "It must be the sun."

"Yeah. Must be."

"Flack was worried about you," she tells me and I frown for a moment, thinking about our brief phone conversation. "He came by the lab yesterday asking if any of us knew where you were."

"What did you tell him?"

"That we had no idea," she says candidly. "He was wondering why you were in Jersey." She studies my expression and I'm very lucky in that moment to possess one hell of a poker face, no matter how much Flack seems to think to the contrary. "Why were you in Jersey?"

"Visiting a friend," I say and shrug. "I was getting tired of being in the apartment by myself all day, so I decided to take a short road trip. We went out in her husband's boat for part of the afternoon."

"Hmm," she muses, "Sounds nice."

"It was," I add and cross my arms over my chest. "Is the interrogation over or do you have a few more questions?"

"No, I'm done," she laughs. "I was just curious why Flack would be beside himself about it."

"Because he's Flack," I scoff and we share a smile. "It's what he does."

"It's what who does?" Flack asks as he charges into my office, hands on his hips. We both turn around and stare for just moment, feeling like teenagers caught passing a note in class.

"What?" he asks, noting our expressions, "Were you talking about me?"

"Not everything is about you," Lindsay jokes and Flack cuts his eyes at her.

"Could have fooled me. You two look guilty," he says but the easy tone in his voice sounds a little strained. "What kind of progress you been making on the Corelli murder?"

He shifts back into work flawlessly, and both Lindsay and I shift with him.

"No one saw anything, no one heard anything," Lindsay answers. "One of the women we interviewed recognized him—she said he was in and out of that warehouse a lot—but that as far as she knew, it was only the two of them the night Corelli was killed."

"Two of them?" I ask, having missed this evidence when it was first discovered. It was undoubtedly in a pile somewhere on my desk, but my chances of finding anything relevant on it are slim to none.

Lindsay nods. "The other man was average height with dark hair," she tells me. "That's all the woman could see, which doesn't really get us anywhere."

"It really doesn't," I sigh and look over at Flack. "Why do you ask?"

"Keeping up with my cases," he answers and I suppose that should have been obvious. I wish I could tell him that I already know who the killer is, but that kind of confession warrants an explanation of epic proportions. I'm about to ask him more when Danny comes rushing past him and into my office, his cell phone clutched in his hand.

"Body on the beach," he says breathlessly. "The call just came in."

Lindsay looks up at me and I see the hint of a grin on her lips.

"Guess you get some more sun," she quips and I sigh.

It's going to be a long morning.

-----

I can honestly say that I'm not squeamish. I've seen every crime scene known to man in my years as a cop and then as a forensic scientist, and after too long you become a bit desensitized to it. Flack and Danny are the same way, but I see Hawkes and Lindsay occasionally turn a little green when they think I'm not looking. Flack and Danny are now on one side of me with Lindsay on the other, but I can honestly say that they're not thinking twice about the body that's laid out in front of them. It's my stomach that's rolling around uneasily, and my skin that's gotten even colder despite the sun that's out and shining.

Danny Stimpson's body is drenched with saltwater and covered in sand, his previously blue eyes slightly bulged from their sockets. His blond hair is mussed and plastered against the pallid skin of his face. Obvious bullet wounds are scattered across his lean torso and his head is tilted away, as though embarrassed even in death of what he's become. He's still wearing the green sweater we saw him in yesterday, and I can't help the slick bolt of shock that slides into my stomach. It's crippling, and I feel the urge to run away and hyperventilate somewhere. My pride keeps me from it, but my suspicions are many.

Lindsay and Danny get to work on the body without my commands and I see Flack move off to the crowd that's been siphoned off with bright yellow crime scene tape. It takes a moment, but I will my limbs to move and then I'm working along beside them. Lindsay and I are processing the body while Danny is scouring the surrounding beach for any additional evidence that we'll be able to use later. His search comes up empty, but Lindsay's doesn't.

"Take a look at this," she says, and I move from my place at the head of the body to where she's kneeling at his feet. She lifts up his pant leg and my eyes are drawn to several lacerations that stretch across the length of his calf. They're long but neat and evenly spaced, and I have no clue what they could be.

"What do you think?" she asks me as we study the marks. "Cutter?"

"Strange place for it," I remark. "There are no hesitation marks. I guess it's possible, but I don't think that's what we're looking at."

"What, then?" she asks, photographing the marks at several different angles. I switch places with her and take another look at the cuts, racking my brain for an explanation. I run my gloved finger over them and notice that the height of each mark is different. They end at almost the same place, which fascinates me. No single cut is higher than three inches below his knee, and I'm left wondering what could have caused damage at such a relatively low height. I check the other leg and find identical markings on it as well, proving my theory even further that we're not dealing with a cutter.

"Hey, Lindsay," I call out, interrupting her pictures. "Take another quick look at this."

She moves to kneel beside me and we're both looking at the man's legs.

"What do you think?" I ask, running my finger over one of the wounds. "What about animal scratches?"

Lindsay studies it for a moment and tilts her head.

"Definitely possible," she says, nodding. "Maybe a small cat or a dog."

"We'll go over his clothes at the lab and see if we can find any animal hairs that could connect us to a location," I say. "Though it's not going to do us much good if Stimpson has a dog of his own."

"Stimpson?" Lindsay asks me and I realize my mistake far too late. I could claim "lucky guess," but neither of us would buy it and I don't want to insult her intelligence by trying.

"Uh, yeah," I say and mentally kick myself for being so stupid. "He's a repeat offender. I've worked his cases a couple of times."

"Why didn't you say something before?" she asks me, her eyes staring holes into the side of my face. All I can do is shrug.

"I didn't think about it."

"Hmm," she says but I can tell that this conversation is far from over.

A few seconds later, Flack is standing next to us and staring down at the body.

"Anything?" he asks us and Lindsay looks up.

"Stella knows the victim," she says and Flack instantly cuts his eyes down at me. I scowl back up at him and shake my head.

"I recognized him," I correct and stare back at Flack. "So do you. This is Danny Stimpson."

It takes him a moment to run the name through his mind, but finally he stares back at me in shock before studying the body a little closer.

"Legs?"

"One and the same," I say.

"Who would do this to Legs?" he asks me, leaning down. "He may have been a punk, but he was a harmless punk. He's probably never been in a fight in his whole damn life."

"Well, he has now," I say and watch Lindsay put the camera away. Danny is walking back up to us with depressingly few evidence bags in hand and a sour expression on his face.

"Let's get him back to Sid," I say, standing up straight and brushing the sand from my knees. "He'll be able to tell us more."

My team nods their heads in agreement and then fan out, performing their perspective duties to get the body ready for transport. I carry our kits and the evidence bags back to the car, loading them in the trunk until we can get them to the lab to go through them more thoroughly. My hands are shaking, I notice as I set them aside. It's the sign of a rookie, usually, but I have a feeling that's not exactly the case when it comes to my hands. My hands are seasoned and steadfast—they don't shake.

Unless, of course, I think I'm the accomplice to a murder.

The thought sets my stomach rolling again and I try to set it aside, determined to hope for the best. Could Mac have gone back to Jersey after dropping me off to kill Stimpson? It was him that Mac wanted pictures of in the first place, and I'm not one to believe in coincidences. It's a pretty damn big one, if it is. I debate the possibilities, but as I grip the handle of the trunk I realize that I'm grasping desperately at straws that don't want to be held.

I've locked the trunk behind me when my phone vibrates on my hip, making me jump. I reach for it with trembling fingers and stare at the display, wishing that "MT" were calling any other person but me.

"Bonasera," I answer robotically, amazed that my voice shows no sign of the turmoil that's rampaging through the rest of my body.

"You just couldn't get enough of the ocean, could you?" Mac's deep voice asks me and I close my eyes, remembering his touch from only hours before. This morning the memory had made me smile; now it makes me sick.

"That makes two of us, apparently," I reply bitterly and look around, knowing that he can see me from wherever he is.

"What do you mean?" he asks and I can't help the temper in my voice.

"Danny Stimpson's body just washed up," I say heatedly and all I hear is silence on the other end of the line; no breathing, no swearing. "I don't suppose you're lurking around my crime scene for any other reason."

"Am I the only suspect you have?" he asks calmly, seeing through my temper.

"No," I say and it's the truth—I have two more people sitting heavily in my mind. "Should you be?"

"That's up to you, isn't it?" he asks me and I feel my lungs deflate. I lean against the car and close my eyes, wondering after a few seconds what I would be opening them to.

I expected righteous anger and shouting… not an even temperament and cool logic. It would have been much easier for me to be suspicious of a man I wanted the night before if he'd been outraged at my questions rather than seemingly expectant of them. The line is silent for a little while longer while we both collect our thoughts and wonder at the other.

"Tell me you didn't kill him, Mac," I breathe and the statement comes out as a plea. My heart is throbbing in my chest. "Tell me I didn't help you kill him."

"It was never my intention to kill him," he murmurs. "I needed his help."

"Help?" I cry, "For what?"

"He met with Raphael twice a week," he informs me, "But I didn't know when or where. I needed that information and I hoped he would give it to me."

"Well, it's too late now," I say and clear my throat. "I don't know where you are, but you should get out of here unless you want Flack chasing after you."

"Who's Flack?"

"A detective who doesn't like his co-workers getting handcuffed to ladders."

"The tall cop," he observes and I nod because I assume he can see me from wherever he is. "I'll make myself scarce, then. Let me know what you find out."

I disconnect the call.

Just a second later, the phone rings again. I don't check the caller ID, because I know who it is.

"Yeah," I say tersely and wait for Mac to remember whatever it was that made him call me back.

"Is this Stella?" a smooth male voice asks me and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I recognize the timbre instantly, and it only makes me hate today even more.

"It is," I confirm. "Who is this?"

"Raphael," he replies. "We met a few days ago."

"Ah, Raphael," I say, drawing out the sound of his name. "I remember."

"I would have called you sooner, but I didn't want to look as desperate to talk to you as I feel," he tells me and I muse at how charming sociopaths can be, as if I didn't already know.

"And just how desperate is that?" I ask, playing the part of the flirty female. I give in to the urge to roll my eyes, mainly because he can't see it.

"Desperate enough to beg you for a date before it's even noon yet," he says, "How about it? I know this place in Midtown—best Italian food in the city."

"Tempting," I say, pretending to play hard to get.

"Come on, Stella," he says, "Don't make me beg."

"How does eight o'clock sound?" I ask.

"It sounds like a date," he says. "Can I pick you up?"

"I'll be coming from work," I cover quickly, "So it's better that I meet you there. This time, at least. I hope that's okay."

"Of course," he says and gives me the address of the restaurant. "I'll see you there?"

"Eight o'clock on the dot," I confirm and hang up the phone, letting out another long breath that seemed to empty me completely. I look over and watch Danny Stimpson's body being loaded into the coroner's van, an assistant accompanying it. Danny and Lindsay are headed back in my direction, Flack beside them. Lindsay meets my eyes and her face drops a little, her brow wrinkling in concern. Her expression convinces me that I look as rattled as I feel, and I know this day is about to get even harder.

**A/N: Sigh... I just can't keep these guys out of danger. They seem to love it. ;)**


	17. CinderStella

**Author's Note:**

**Hello all! Your reviews had me writing at warp speeds this weekend, so here's the next chapter. Things are going to be getting pretty heavy from here on out... fair warning. ;) I've outlined the rest of the story, and it looks like this will be ending at about thirty chapters or so. I know! It's so long... I just hope you can all stick with me for the duration. =)**

**Thanks, as always, to Lily. After all her help, I think I owe her a cashmere pillow with golden goose feathers. **

**Chapter Seventeen**

"**Cinder-Stella"**

"You were right," Sid tells me as I charge through the autopsy doors. I button my lab coat and give him an expectant look.

"You'll have to be more specific, Doc," I say and offer him a playful smile. For some reason, I'm a little more put-together around Sid Hammerback. Maybe it's because his mind goes in a million different directions at warp speed and—for once—I'm the calm one in the relationship. Nevertheless, he offers me an enthusiastic grin and I know that he's about to launch into one of his lectures.

"The lacerations on our victim were, in fact, animal scratches," he says and pulls the sheet a little further up from Danny Stimpson's feet, "A small animal, to be exact. More than likely a dog—the scratches are too wide to have been at the hands—or paws, as it were—of a cat."

I chuckle because the joke, corny as it may be, is funny.

"It did the job well enough," I note and he smiles.

"It appears so."

"I don't suppose you'd have the breed for me," I suggest and he laughs.

"I believe Sheldon found some fine white hairs on the victim as we removed his clothing. I'm sure that's what he's working on as we speak."

"But you don't know?"

"Patience, Stella," he says warmly.

"It was never my virtue," I reply. "Of course you'll let me know as soon as you hear anything."

"You wouldn't expect any less, I presume," and snaps his glasses back together, perching them on the bridge of his nose. The sight is one I've grown very accustomed to, and it's a mild relief to see that some things don't change in the midst of chaos.

On my way to the door, Sid calls out to me.

"Don't you want to know the cause of death?" he asks and I stop, turning to face him.

"I suppose it would be foolish of me to think it was the gunshot wounds," I say, mildly sarcastic, but he only smiles. "Wouldn't it?"

"Not this time," he says, "Thirteen gunshots total, two of which penetrated the left lung. One, it seems, nicked the aorta. He would have been dead in seconds."

"His clothes were clean," I point out, walking back to the autopsy table, but I already know the reason. I've learned that from time to time, Sid likes to come up with his own conclusions without me to fill them in.

"He was in the water overnight, it looks like," he says. "The water would have washed away the blood."

"I'm surprised we didn't find him in more pieces," I say with a sigh. "Blood like that in the water? He should have been fish food."

"Perhaps our victim found a little luck after all," he offers with a knowing smile.

"If he was that lucky, he wouldn't have been in the water in the first place," I reply and he nods in agreement. I move to leave again, but a thought strikes me and I have no choice but to voice it. "Is it too early to get the time of death?"

Sid frowns.

"Based on liver temperature and his time in the water…" he trails off, "My best estimate would be around early evening yesterday. No more than twenty hours, certainly."

I inwardly sigh from relief, but Sid doesn't notice.

"Thank you, Sid," I say and he nods. "Call me as soon as you know the breed."

He promises a hasty report and I leave, reaching for my phone before I'm completely out the doors. The hallway is deserted and I thank whatever angel upstairs has their eye on me at that moment. I dial the desired number and lean against the wall, feeling the cool stone against the nape of my neck. I close my eyes and pretend that for a few seconds, my life isn't spinning wildly out of control.

Mac answers after the fourth ring, and it amazes me that he's able to get his phone replaced so quickly after losing it.

"It's me," I say softly, listening to my voice reverberate off the walls. Mac doesn't answer, and I have a feeling I know what he's waiting for me to say. It isn't nearly as difficult as I thought it would be.

"I'm sorry," I say and I mean it. "Danny Stimpson was killed yesterday evening. We would have still been on the ship."

"Don't apologize," he tells me. "You were doing your job. You should be suspicious."

"That doesn't make it right," I reply and exhale loudly. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you."

"I haven't exactly made it easy for you," he says.

"No, you haven't," I laugh and I feel a little of the weight come off my shoulders. "Anyway, that's not why I called."

"Should I be worried?"

"Maybe, but I'm trying not to be," I scoff. "Raphael called me today a few seconds after I talked to you."

"And?"

"And I'm meeting him tonight at eight," I say and brace myself for the tantrum that I'm sure is about to erupt from the other end of the line. It doesn't, though, and I hear him exhale loudly.

"I don't suppose yelling would do any good," he says.

"Probably not."

"How about begging?"

"I'd be guilty, but I'd still be going," I reply.

"Then I'm out of options," he says wearily and I feel myself smiling at the sound of his voice. "Do you know where you're going?"

I give him the address, and I have a feeling that he intends to follow me around for the rest of the night. Strangely, the thought is more comforting than it is bothersome. Knowing that someone is watching my back tonight actually makes me feel a lot better about the entire thing, since I won't exactly be free to wear a badge and a gun under my dress.

"What time are you leaving the lab?" he asks me.

"The goal is to be out of here by six," I say dejectedly. "There's no telling if it will happen or not. We've got all the evidence from Danny Stimpson and I know exactly who killed him, but I can't say anything about it because then I'll have to explain everything."

"That is a problem," he says. "What can I do?"

"Nothing right now," I sigh. "But thank you, really. It's just a matter of hoping that there's enough evidence to point us in the right direction. I'm not jeopardizing the integrity of my lab by planting evidence."

"It wouldn't be worth it," he agrees. "If you change your mind, let me know."

"I will."

"I'll see you tonight," he says and hangs up before I have the chance to question what he means. I stare at the phone for a few minutes, shaking my head. The surprises that this man throws at me keep me constantly on my toes, but I guess that if it were any different I wouldn't be nearly so captivated by him.

I pull myself away from the wall and head around the corner, running headfirst into Flack. I almost fall over but his hands reach out to steady me before I can. He's staring at me like I've lost my mind, but he doesn't let go.

"Where's the fire?" he asks and I shake my head.

"No fire," I say and pull out of his grasp, "Just on my way to see Hawkes about some trace evidence." I step away from him but he steps in the same direction, blocking my escape. "Can I help you with something, Flack?"

"You've never seen Danny Stimpson in person," he says, his voice low and predatory. His intense blue eyes keep me trapped in place and I have no choice but to stare at him, head on.

"Of course I have," I say. "Mug shots are included with every case file, you know that."

"We haven't dealt with Legs in over two years," he says adamantly. "I know your memory is good, Stel, but it's not that good. No one's is."

"That's where you're wrong," I say and push past him. "I'm going to work, Flack. I'm sure you can find something to keep you busy until the evidence comes back."

"Stella," he calls to my retreating back, "Stella!"

"What?" I ask, stopping before his voice gets any louder and calls unnecessary attention to the scene he's making this.

"How are you wrapped up in this?" he asks me a fierce whisper.

"I'm not."

"Stop lying to me," he says.

I stare up at him, I see the anger and the worry in his eyes, and all I can do is sigh. Of course he's right, but I've risked enough without asking him to do the same. He would do it because he cares and because he's my friend, but he would hate himself for it. Anyone else might have come clean, and accepted the helping hand that their best friend was offering. Unfortunately, I'm not anyone else. All I can do is touch his arm and give him a small smile that does nothing but make me feel worse.

"Later, Don," I say and I leave him behind, standing in an otherwise empty hallway.

-----

I leave the lab just after five o'clock because there's nothing else I can do. The white hairs Hawkes found on the victim's sweater are still unidentified, but he hopes to have put a name to it by tomorrow. Danny is working on ballistics. Sid's preliminary report is on my desk and, thanks to Lindsay and Flack, Danny Stimpson's grieving landlord has been informed of his demise. It feels strange leaving when the sun is still up—it's probably the first time it's ever happened—but I call for a cab and leave it behind, trading it for something that promises to be far more reckless.

I've been in my apartment for maybe five minutes when there's a knock at my door that doesn't sound like Flack. I don't know who's there—I'm not psychic—but I know who I want it to be. The feeling seems irrational, but deep down I couldn't care less. A quick peek through the door tells me that I'm right, and I offer an apologetic smile as I open it.

"You're early," Mac says, leaning against the door frame. His hands are in his pockets and he's donned a daring smile that makes his blue eyes light up.

"You're unexpected," I say and open the door wider, allowing him inside.

"I told you I'd see you tonight," he replies, walking a few steps inside before turning to me.

"That you did," I say but no other words come to mind. We're standing there, staring at each other, wondering what the other is thinking. You'd think we would be mature enough to just ask what's happening, but that would be too easy. I can honestly say that I've never taken the easy way out of anything, much less my awkward silences.

"Are you ready?" he finally asks me. I arch an eyebrow and cross my arms over my chest. It's a defensive pose, I know, but I can't decide if it's necessary or not.

"Depends," I say easily, "What should I be ready for?"

"Aren't you meeting Raphael tonight?" he asks, confused. I realize in that moment that I'm the only one who noticed the subtext, and he probably thinks I'm crazy by now.

"Yeah, of course," I say, attempting to cover my idiocy. "I've just been trying not to think about it. I don't want to psyche myself out."

"Fair enough," he says but his expression is still skeptical. "Have you talked to him since this morning?"

"No," I say but my mind drifts back to mine and Flack's confrontation this afternoon. I haven't seen him since, and I know that after this is over I'm going to owe him a major explanation and a year's worth of dinner.

"What's on your mind?" he says, studying me. "It's okay if you want to bow out. You have no obligation to do this."

"No. No," I say, sighing and putting my hand to my forehead. "It's not that."

He watches me as I cross the room and curl up on one end of the couch, kicking my shoes off and pulling my feet under me. I want to tell him, but I just can't find the words.

"What is it, then?" he asks.

"It's Flack," I say miserably.

"The tall cop," he confirms and I nod my head. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's getting really suspicious of me," I say and it sounds even stranger when it's my own voice admitting to my best friend no longer trusting me. "He's so worried that something's wrong, but I know that I can't get him into this. It's bad enough that I've put my own career on the line—I couldn't ask the same of him."

Mad nods knowingly, and pierces me with startling blue eyes.

"You're close?" he asks and the question carries with it a lifetime of subtext.

"Yes," I say firmly. "We're very close friends. He was there for me…" I drift off, lost in my thoughts before clearing my throat and continuing, "After Frankie. I probably wouldn't have been the same without him, and I hate having to lie to him."

"I'm sorry," he says and I know that it's as much an apology for what happened with Frankie as it is for my current predicament. "What are you going to do?"

"There's nothing I can do," I sigh. "I made this choice, and I'm carrying through with it."

"I suppose it's useless for me to convince you otherwise," he says gently, humor radiating off the words.

"I suppose so," I say. "Surely that's not why you stopped by."

"Not entirely," he says and I see the mischievous glint in his eye. I grin before I have the common sense to be afraid. He pulls his hands out of the pockets of his leather jacket and walks slowly towards me. The breath catches in my chest and my chin tilts up before I notice that he's walking right past me and into the kitchen. Mildly insulted, I pull myself off the couch and follow him inside, watching as he moves around the room as comfortably as he would if it were his own.

"What are you doing?" I ask and he turns around, giving me a look that says the answer should be obvious. Of course I don't have the slightest idea until he holds up a coffee filter.

"Yours is better," he says simply and I sigh.

"Figures," I mumble and walk back out of the kitchen.

An hour later I'm dressed and ready to go. Mac is still waiting patiently in my living room—after drinking enough coffee to have him awake at least the rest of the night—and suddenly my nerves kick up a notch. It was a lot easier to be calm about this entire situation when it was so far away; now I'm in a tight red dress and heels, getting ready to meet a serial killer for dinner. Stella Bonasera is no coward, but it doesn't keep the mild tremble out of my hands. Trying to pretend that I'm much more comfortable in this than I am, I walk out of my bedroom and say nothing. I don't ask him what he thinks of the dress, and I don't ask him where he'll be for the rest of the night. I don't ask him to hold my hand, even though I know it would shake less if he did.

I can feel him staring as I cross the room; the only sound keeping us from absolute silence is the clicking of my heels on the hardwood floor, but I try not to notice. I reach for my purse and take my badge and my gun out of it, setting my badge on the table next to my door and the gun in the drawer directly below it. It feels strange leaving them behind, but I don't have a choice. A woman could probably get away with having a gun in this city, but not a standard-issue law enforcement revolver. I've been giving my identity a lot of thought over the last few hours, and I've decided that tonight I'm not Detective Stella Bonasera.

Tonight I'm Stella Benedetti, dance instructor.

It's a cover that I can keep up with, and that's the point. It doesn't occur to me how much scrutiny my cover needs to stand up to, but hopefully this won't last long. The idea that my life could be this hectic every day for much longer is terrifying, but I don't seem to have given myself much of a choice. I know that Mac would understand if I should suddenly back out, but I wouldn't be nearly so forgiving of myself. Fear has never dictated what I do with my life, and it's not about to start now.

I feel him follow me to the door and I open it, intending to head out after him. He walks slowly past me before turning around and stepping closer. His eyes are dark and intense—he's thinking about something, and he's not sure what to make of it. I know the feeling. He says nothing, but before I can ask what he's doing his lips are on mine and his hands are on either side of my neck, pulling me up to him. I taste the desperation on his lips and I refuse to acknowledge that he could be just as scared as I am. He releases me after I'm breathless and clinging to him, but he keeps me in his arms.

"Be careful, Stella," he says softly, his eyes still closed.

"I'll do what I can," I tease, and he gives me a mildly panicked look.

"You're kidding."

"Am I?"

All he can do is shake his head and run his thumb over my lips. I want to complain that he's messing up my lipstick, but I honestly couldn't care less.

"You're hell on my blood pressure, you know that?" he asks gruffly and I laugh.

"I can sympathize."

He kisses me again and then he's off, walking down the hall. He doesn't turn back but I keep staring after him, wondering if he's going to disappear into thin air or take the elevator like everyone else. Much to my disappointment, the elevator takes him away and all I'm doing is staring at an empty hallway. Feeling like the fool that I am, I turn off my lights and lock the door behind me.

-----

The cab drops me off at the address I requested and I pay the fare, stepping out onto the sidewalk. La Notte Stellata is in a brick building with a wealth of flowers and vines decorating the tables that sit outside. Obviously Italian music is spilling from the restaurant onto the sidewalk, inviting passers-by to come inside. I find myself surprised that I haven't heard of the place before, but it's impossible to know where everything is in a city like New York.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" a smooth voice whispers in my ear and I tense for a moment before realizing that I should be expecting him.

"Starry Night," I observe, translating the name from Italian. "Charming."

"I thought so, too," he says and takes a few steps to stand beside me. Our arms are an inch away from touching, and I suppress the urge to shrug away from him. He's admiring the structure with me, and his face is entirely calm.

"Shall we?" he asks, turning his molten brown eyes in my direction. I meet them head on, unblinking.

"Absolutely."

The maître d' jumps a little as we walk through the door—his eyes glued on my companion rather than on the cleavage I'm sure I'm showing—and feverishly whispers something to a pimply teenager behind him. The boy nods quickly and rushes off somewhere, leaving the maître d' to face us with a well-practiced and toothy smile.

"Mr. Benevuto," he says, stepping around the antique wooden podium. "Who, may I ask, is your lovely guest?"

"This is Stella," he says and I offer my hand to the obviously nervous man before me. "Stella, I'm sorry. I didn't catch your family name."

"Benedetti," I offer, looking back up at him. "It's nice to meet you."

"Benedetti," the man repeats and nods knowingly. "Of Naples, correct? You must be the accomplished daughter that Massimo has sent to America."

"I'm afraid not," I apologize, bowing my head. "I was born here, in New York."

"Ah, well," he sighs, "It is a joy to have you join us, nevertheless."

"Thank you," I say and he leads us to a booth near the back, where all faces disappear with a wave of Raphael's hand. He orders wine with a look, and seconds later the house red appears before us. The same nervous teenager pours it, and Raphael ignores his existence completely. Unfortunately, that means his attention is fixated on me. I'm sitting across from him, and I start to get a feel for what it's like on the other side of the interrogation table.

"Tell me your story, Stella," he says, taking a sip of his wine. "I want to know everything."

"That covers a lot of territory," I reply, taking a drink from my own glass. "You might have to narrow it down a bit if you want me to say anything of interest."

He only laughs.

"Very well, then," he says, stretching his arm across the back of his seat. "What is it that you do?"

"I'm a dance teacher at an elementary school," I say and he fixes me with an enigmatic grin. He whispers something along the lines of "Interesting…" and all I can do is smile in response. My stomach clenches, and I know it's going to be a long night.

The meal is marvelous and the wine is unrivaled—that's saying something, because I've sampled wine at some of the best vineyards in Italy. Unfortunately, I can't indulge because keeping my wits about me is crucial in this particular setting.

Raphael is charming and warm, and I don't find myself surprised by the number of women who have fallen prey to him. He's obviously wealthy and attractive, and manages to be a proficient conversationalist. He offers the bare minimum about himself, and then showers his companion with compliments so that they feel obligated to elaborate on themselves. It scares me a little to think that if I didn't already know he was a murderer, I might have been quite taken with him.

"It's getting late, isn't it," he says, looking at a watch on his wrist that I have no doubt is a Rolex. "I suppose I shouldn't keep you out too late on a school night."

He winks and I have no choice but to laugh as though he were the cleverest man on the face of the earth. I can tell he enjoys the flattery, because the color in his olive-toned cheeks goes up a notch.

"Let me talk to the owner for just a minute and we'll get you home," he says and I nod as he leaves the table. I pull my cell phone out of my purse, and after checking the time I realize that it's just after ten o'clock. Time flies when you're walking on hot coals, I guess.

I've barely set the phone down on the linen tablecloth when two voices catch my attention. I turn to sneak a peek over my shoulder, and I can't help but groan in frustration when I realize that it's Danny and Lindsay who have walked through the front doors. They're holding hands and smiling as per usual when they're not on the clock, and I know that my presence here is probably the last thing either of them want right now. I ran into Sinclair on a date once, and I couldn't look him in the eye for weeks after that. Wanting to spare Danny and Lindsay that kind of awkwardness—or maybe just to spare myself a dishonest explanation—I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder.

I wait until they're seated to head to the door, walking quickly and hiding my face as much as possible. I near their table but they don't spare me as much as a glance; for once I consider myself lucky to have them too wrapped up in each other to notice anything else that's going on. Before I know it, the door is closing behind me and I'm in the clear. Staring back at the restaurant, I release a pent-up breath and thank my lucky stars that they didn't notice me. Of course that means I just ran out on my tab, but I can always come back tomorrow and square up with the owners.

I'm contemplating calling a cab when the front door opens again and Raphael steps out, his eyes scanning his surroundings before landing on me. He exits the restaurant completely and comes to stand in front of me, a curious look in his eyes.

"You running out on me?" he asks but he doesn't sound angry.

"Sorry," I say nervously, hugging my arms to my chest in the cool breeze. "I just needed some air. I was hoping you'd find me out here before you got too worried."

"Ah. I guess I can understand that," he says and then pulls something out of his pocket. A quick looks tells me it's my cell phone. "You ran off and left this, Cinderella. I thought it might fit."

I take the small device in my hand and give it a curious glance, just to keep him happy.

"I think it does," I say and slip it into my purse. "But it's almost eleven, and I've really got to get home."

"I forgot the spell only lasts until eleven on school nights," he says thoughtfully and I laugh a little. "At least let me call you a cab."

"I'd like that," I say despite the fact that it couldn't be farther from the truth.

He's waved a yellow car to the curb within moments of making the offer and then we're standing at the curb, waiting to say goodbye. I'm expecting to have to dodge a kiss, but he only takes my hand and brings it slowly to his lips. It's hardly a touch, and then it's gone. I have to admit that his modesty, in this case, is a pleasant surprise.

"Your carriage awaits," he says with an amused smile playing on his mouth. "I'd like to see you again, Stella."

"I'm a phone call away," I reply before climbing in the cab and allowing Raphael to shut the door for me. I watch him throw what looks like a hundred-dollar bill through the window at the driver and he leans down to talk to the man through the window.

"Take her wherever she needs to go," he orders and the man adamantly nods his head. Raphael waves at me one last time and then we're pulling away, leaving him behind.

Speeding more than any cab driver I've ever ridden with in my life, the man behind the wheel gets me home in just under fifteen minutes. Maybe it was the lack of traffic, but maybe not. He offers me a slight nod of his head as I climb out and shut the door behind me, not checking to see if he offered change because I honestly couldn't care less how much the actual fare was. He could keep Raphael's money.

When I unlock my front door, the air is buzzing with something that I don't understand. I turn the light on and wait for Mac to jump out of the shadows again, but it doesn't happen. I call out, but I don't receive an answer. My home is completely silent aside from my breathing, and I realize that I'm just being paranoid. Spending two hours with a serial killer could do that to you, I'm sure. As far as dates with murderers go, this one could have gone much worse.

I kick off my heels and take a seat on the couch, willing Mac to come and knock on the door. He doesn't, though, so I massage the arches of my feet for a moment before my eyes rest on the badge that's sitting on my coffee table. I study it and frown; didn't I put it on the table by the door before I left? I can't remember it with any reliable clarity, so I shrug the sight off and try to focus on getting a bit of rest. I change out of my dress and pull on a large t-shirt, walking into the kitchen to set the timer on the coffee pot. Every time I pass through the living room, my badge catches my eye.

I could have sworn I didn't leave it there.

**A/N: I feel like I should apologize for the chapter's title. lol With the Cinderella references and all, I just couldn't help myself. ;) **


	18. The Rocks and the Nails

**Author's Note:**

**Just as a note of warning, this chapter is incredibly long! =) I had some requests to put in Mac's POV from the last chapter, so I can only hope that I've satisfied everyone in that regard. Thanks so much to joannahobbit for all her kind words, so this chapter is for her and Mynerva24, who also helped me quite a bit in sorting out what I wanted to accomplish. (My thoughts are a bit jumbled of late, so I need all the help I can get.) Also, thanks to all of you who are sticking around and reading such a long story!**

**Thanks, as always, to the best beta in the world--Lily. Without her I'd probably be back in chapter nine going, "Uh....". =)**

**Chapter Eighteen**

"**The Rocks and the Nails"**

It's harder to stay in the background than I thought it would be, and that's not usually something I have a problem with. It feels far too natural for me to watch her move around the apartment, looking for whatever pair of shoes or earrings. If this were another life, it would have been entirely normal. In mine, however, it's nothing if not rare. Very few women have been able to put up with my workaholic tendencies and inability to voice emotion articulately, so this isn't a view that I can say I've ever had. She moves as though I'm not even there, and I don't know if the thought is comforting or not.

When she finally emerges from her bedroom, my mouth goes dry and my head goes a little fuzzy. The material is a dark scarlet that brings out the gold in her skin and the green in her eyes; it stretches down to just below her knees and is thin enough to appear as a second skin. Her hair has been pulled up, save for a few tendrils that she's let fall around her face. I stare unabashedly at her as she continues with her ritual, seemingly unaware of my attention. I consider myself lucky that she doesn't ask me what I think, but I'm not entirely sure I can form coherent thoughts.

I know it's time to leave when she leaves her badge and her gun behind, and I can't imagine how foreign that must feel to her. I walk past her and into the hall, catching the scent of her perfume on the air. Self control has never been something I struggle with, but tonight it seems to have abandoned me completely. When I pull her to me and feel her arms go around my neck, I want nothing more than to close the door behind us and discover the rest of her. It's impossible, though, so I can do is touch her and wait for the next time I have the opportunity to be with her. The thought that she's leaving to have dinner with a known murderer scares the hell out of me, and it keeps me from leaving when I know I should.

I want to make her promise to be careful—to hold her against me until she swears that she won't go, but pulling something like that with a woman like Stella won't get me very far. Instead she looks right through me and makes a joke, telling me without the words themselves that I shouldn't be scared; that she can take care of herself. Somewhere I'm sure I know that, but logic fails me when it comes to her. That's another first for me.

It takes all my willpower to remove my hands from her and turn away. I don't look back, because I know that I'll be lost as soon as I do.

She doesn't know it, but I have eyes on her from the moment she steps out of her apartment building to the moment she re-enters it a few hours later. I keep a fair distance in case anyone else is watching her, but at this point I don't think that's the case. I watch the cabbie drop her off and I watch Raphael as he sneaks up behind her. It bothers me how good at it he is, because even Stella is taken aback by his sudden appearance. I see him lean close, his mouth almost touching her ear, and I can't help the liquid slide of jealousy in my gut. It kills me to have to let him get so close to her, but I don't seem to have a choice.

A few minutes after they're inside, I follow and ask to be seated a safe distance away. There's nothing about my presence in the restaurant that calls unwanted attention, and that's exactly the way I want it. I keep a close eye on them throughout the meal, and I can see that Stella works well undercover. She doesn't seem particularly tense, and Raphael doesn't look at all suspicious of her. When he gets up to get the check, I pay my own and walk out the front of the restaurant to return to my car. A young couple passes me on the way in, they're discussing flower arrangements, and the woman gives me a bright smile and a slight nod of her head. The man doesn't seem to be paying attention to anyone other than his companion.

I make my way to my car and minutes later Stella comes out the front of the restaurant, looking back to see if she's been followed. The action seems peculiar when she knows she has another person to worry about, but she seems to relax a bit when it's Raphael that's next to come out the front door. I don't know what they're talking about, but he hands her something and she puts it in her purse. It's hard to see anything from this distance, but Stella doesn't seem worried so I guess I shouldn't be either.

A few minutes later she's in a taxi, on her way back home. I follow still, keeping my distance, and I consider parking the car and going back up to see her before I watch her enter the building. She's limping a little—I would be, too, if I had to wear shoes like that—and I can tell by the way she carries herself that she's exhausted. She's had a really long couple of days, and so I decide that it's better she get some sleep rather than entertain my worrying.

I stay for a few minutes longer, waiting to see the lights in her apartment come on. They do, and I watch as she moves back and forth in front of the window. She's changed out of the dress—thank God—and she looks much more comfortable in her oversized t-shirt. When I'm sure that she's gone to bed I climb back in the car and drive off, heading back to the house to see what Raphael has planned for the rest of his night. I'll probably watch him for the next few hours before finally giving up and falling asleep.

I have a feeling that I'll be dreaming in red tonight.

-----

A complete and total lack of sleep brings me to the lab before the sun is even up. The night crew is on their way out, and I nod my hellos to them as they head for the elevator. In these brief minutes between shifts, the lab is completely still and silent. All you hear is the gentle whir of the machines and the occasional phone ringing. I clutch my cup of coffee as I walk through the door to my office, cringing at the mountains of paperwork that have piled up over the last few days. Since the rest of the team won't be in for at least an hour, so I don't suppose I have an excuse to keep putting it off.

The excuses begin to pile up, though, as more and more people enter the building. Sid comes in to check that I've read over his report—I have, of course—and then he's off, headed back to the morgue to face the new day's dead. I catch Hawkes as he comes through the hallway to ask him about the as yet unidentified animal hairs on Danny Stimpson's clothing, but he's quick to tell me that a lab report hasn't come through yet. Adam comes in, headphones blaring, and offers me a nervous wave and a deep blush. Lindsay and Danny are next to work, and I notice that they don't let go of each other's hands until they walk by my office. Lindsay offers a smile and a wave through the glass and I return it, wishing I could pry myself out of my chair to go participate in the rest of the lab. The days that I'm stuck behind a desk make me feel alienated from everyone else.

Flack doesn't come in at all. It makes me feel terrible, because usually he stops by just to see what we're doing and to catch up on anything that might have come through overnight. Sometimes, if he knows I'm overworking myself, he brings in a cup of coffee and a muffin that will most likely be the only food I touch that day. Not today, though. Today he's somewhere else, probably avoiding me. I find myself expecting to see him every time the elevator doors open, but it doesn't happen. I stop looking after a while.

The rest of the morning fades to a blur as I rid my desk of the paperwork that litters it. I should be grateful that it's being done, but I'd be a lot more grateful if someone else was doing it. I begin to contemplate lunch but within a few seconds of the thought Hawkes is marching into my office, a piece of paper in hand. I can still smell the printer's ink on the page, so I know that whatever this information is it's hot off the presses. He stands just away from the perimeter of my desk as though waiting to be invited closer. It's something that years of working together have yet to remedy, and I've given up trying.

"What is it, Hawkes?" I ask, putting my pen down and giving him my full attention.

"I got a fix on the hairs that came from our victim's shirt," he says and steps only a foot closer, reaching out to hand me the paper. He continues as my eyes scan the page, "The dog that left them definitely didn't belong to the victim. As it turns out, it's an incredibly rare breed."

"The Volpino," I read, "Bred in Italy."

"Apparently, the breed is known for not liking strangers," he informs me with a slight smirk. "Maybe our victim trespassed and the owner was as happy about it as the dog was."

"Entirely possible," I say and stand up, grabbing my lab coat off the back of my chair. Lunch is now the last thing on my mind. "If the dog is a rare breed, wouldn't there be some kind of registry that could tell us who owned one in the area?"

"There should be," he says as we leave my office, heading down the hall, "The American Kennel Club recognizes almost two hundred breeds of dogs. If the Volpino is as rare as it seems, the owner would have been sure to have the dog registered with them."

"That sounds like a fair bet to me," I say and walk into one of the tinier workrooms, heading straight for the computer. "Let's see if it holds up."

Hawkes stands next to me as I flip through the lab's millions of databases, searching for the AKC. It takes a few seconds of furious typing, but then my request is being launched through billions of pages of cyberspace. Possibilities and hits are weeded out and sent directly to me, while all irrelevant information remains dormant until the day comes that we need it for something else. Sometimes I curse the internet and all the bad that's managed to come from it, but on days like these I'm overjoyed that it exists. The printer spits out a list that Hawkes instantly reaches for, scanning his eyes over it before shaking his head.

"No good," he says, handing me the piece of paper. "No hits for NYC."

"Is that even possible?" I ask, double-checking what he's already told me. "Can a dog be rare enough to not exist in the millions of people in this city?"

"Apparently so," he says, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes at the search criteria. "Try widening the search to include the entire state."

The search is running through when Danny comes charging into the room, commanding both mine and Hawkes' attention with his distinctive voice.

"Hey, there you are," he says, coming to stand next to me.

"Here I am," I say, putting my hands in my pockets. "What's up?"

"I analyzed the rest of the trace from our vic's shoes and clothes," he starts, "But understandably, there wasn't much to find after the Doc here made off with the dog hairs."

Hawkes offers me a grin, but then our attention is back on Danny.

"There were a few fibers that I found on his sleeve, though," he says and points to his own elbow. "It would have been right about here when it was on his body. I identified the fibers as carpet. More specifically, they're used on a very expensive line of yachts."

"Really," I say, my curiosity thoroughly piqued. "Got a name for that line, Messer?"

"What do you take me for?" he asks but offers a wide grin. "The yacht that this fiber came from is one of McCarley's Royalty line. Crazy expensive… like, Trump money."

I look over at Hawkes, raising an eyebrow.

"What do you say?" I ask, "How about expanding the search criteria to include Volpino owners that happen to own boats?"

"That's why you're the boss," he says with a smile and I nod.

"Damn right."

I change the parameters of the search to include everyone in the tri-state area, and the AKC gives me a grand total of five names. Apparently the breed is rarer than we've been giving it credit for, or not many people have a taste for tiny Italian dogs. I run the names from the list through the larger DMV database that will tell us what kind of vehicles the owners possess. The first four own five Porsches and eight Mercedes' between them, but no boats. The fifth name comes up with a brand-new yacht, and Hawkes smiles over at me.

"Marco and Theresa Emiliano," I read and I curl my tongue around the words to make it sound like I hadn't known them beforehand. "They bought their Volpino, a female named Victoria, just over a year ago. The boat is newer, and it's insured under their son's name."

"They're out of Jersey," Danny reads, "What do you think, chief? Road trip?"

I debate it for a long moment, knowing that I'm about to get into a load of trouble that I have no way of getting out of. Ultimately I know that I can't forfeit the investigation of a murder because it interferes with my personal activities, so I give a brief nod.

"Call Flack and get a warrant," I say and Danny races off, preparing for another day out of the lab.

"You're usually happier about a lead like this," Hawkes observes, bringing me out of my headspace.

"Am I?" I ask lamely, staring straight ahead.

"I'm used to seeing you rush out of here yourself, guns blazing," he says, laughing a little. "You knocked me clean over once."

"I told you I was sorry."

"You called it over your shoulder as you caught the elevator," he corrects and suddenly I'm laughing with him. "That's sort of like an apology, but not really."

"That was a crazy day," I recollect before turning to smile at him. "I guess my head is just gone today, Sheldon. I don't know what else to say."

"So don't say anything," he says simply, "I wasn't demanding an explanation. It's just that you've seemed really distracted the last few days. We've all noticed."

"Everyone, huh?" I ask despairingly and he nods. We both watch as Danny comes rushing back into the room, shrugging into his leather jacket and giving us the thumbs up.

"Flack is getting the warrant and he'll meet us here," he informs us and then we're back to work, cataloging the evidence until Flack sweeps us off to New Jersey.

-----

Flack drives, Danny talks, and I listen.

It's the universal order of things when Flack and I have too much to say to each other and no words or courage with which to say it. I stare out the window for most of the trip or read over the search warrant, which covers the Emiliano home and family pet as well as the boat. I feel Flack's eyes on me in the rearview mirror every now and then, but when I turn to look his eyes are steadfastly on the road ahead of him. I know that I need to do something—I couldn't stand losing him—but I wouldn't know what to say to him even if he did want to listen. Would he try to stop me? It's entirely likely, and I would have to deny him. The damage that could cause is unthinkable, but at least I wouldn't have to lie to him anymore.

Luckily New Jersey is a very short trip, and within half an hour we're entering Newark. Flack navigates the streets like a pro, and my guess is that he's been here several times before. He consults the address on the warrant and the GPS on the car only once, and even then he does it with a wince. I don't know what it is, but Flack has that very stereotypically male trait of being incapable of asking for directions—even from electronic devices. If we were speaking, I might have made a crack about it. Not today, though.

Before I'm entirely ready to deal with it, a large white house with blue shutters comes into view. Flack pulls to the curb and makes a quick phone call to the Newark police department, informing them in a very congenial tone that we'll be working a case in the area. No one appeared to fight for it because he hangs up a few seconds later, looking over at Danny.

"Ready?" he asks and I feel invisible.

"Let's go," Danny says and we all climb out of the car, heading for what looks like the happy home of two retirees with grandchildren. Of course I know differently, so my strides are long and my eyes are focused straight ahead. Danny and Flack fall in on either side of me, assuming the role of back-up without needing to ask if it's necessary.

I knock on the door and instantly barking erupts from the other side of the door. I catch Danny's eye and he nods, noting that he understands what I'm telling him. We turn back to the door and someone is peeking over the pane of glass. Almost simultaneously Danny, Flack, and I raise our badges so that whoever is on the other side can have no doubt as to whom we're representing. I hear an assortment of curses in Italian before the door opens to a small, round woman with frizzy hair and an obviously fake smile.

"Theresa Emiliano?" I ask and she reluctantly nods her head. "I'm Detective Bonasera from the New York crime lab. These are Detectives Messer and Flack. We're here to execute a search warrant on your home."

"Search warrant?" she repeats incredulously, taking the document from my hands and looking over it. It must not be her first, because she finds the good stuff that's buried in all the legalese. "You want to search my house? And the boat?" She looks up at me, confused. "Why do you want Victoria?"

"Dog hairs matching this breed were found on a murder victim that washed up yesterday morning," I say. "You were one of the only households that own a Volpino in the tri-state area. We're searching everyone."

"I see," she says and I can see her relax a little, even though she probably shouldn't. If I were to guess I would say that she had no idea Danny Stimpson even existed, much less that one of her family had killed him.

She lets us inside and the first thing I see is a tiny white ball of hair sitting in the middle of the floor, staring me down like Clint Eastwood at his best. Victoria gives me a small growl, as if daring me to make her day. All I can do is stare back and remember all the marks on Stimpson's legs. My concern is getting a sample of her fur, and I highly doubt that she's going to cut it herself and hand it over with a smile. I take one step closer and she bares her teeth, snapping once at me.

"Hey, she's cute," Danny says and I cut my eyes at him. He shrugs and steps forward, offering a hand—theoretically—for the dog to sniff. Instead she snaps at him too, and he just barely snatches his hand away in time.

"Jesus," he says, "She's got some bite."

"Victoria is very protective of her family," Theresa informs me from the doorway, and I detect a little satisfaction in the phrase. I assume that she thinks we'll give up on the hair sample if no one wants to get near the dog. Unfortunately—for whom, I'm not sure—we're not allowed to let a feisty dog get in the way of evidence collection. Mine and Danny's eyes drift to Flack, who's standing back and watching us work up the nerve to get close to her again.

"What?" he asks and rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on. It's a cotton ball with legs."

"And teeth," Danny reminds him.

"And teeth," Flack repeats disdainfully and steps forward, keeping his eyes on the cotton ball in question. She eyes him warily but he doesn't flinch when she growls and prepares to lunge. I'm debating the plausibility of Victoria aiming for the jugular when Flack points a finger at the dog.

"Listen, you," he says forcefully, "I'm going to pet you, and you are _not _going to bite me. Got that?" The dog doesn't reply, but apparently Flack got the answer he wanted. He presents his hand to her and instead of growing or snapping at him, she sniffs at him curiously. After a few seconds of exploration she licks his fingertips and he scratches behind her ears.

"See?" he asks, beaming at me and Danny for probably the first time all day. "Nothing to it. You've just got to let the animals know who's boss; control the situation."

"Yeah, well, control away," Danny scoffs, "Just get some of the thing's fur while you're at it."

"Come here, Victoria," Flack murmurs to the dog and picks her up. Danny and I watch, astounded, as the dog sniffs delightedly at his face. It's hard to believe that the animal that was getting ready to kill just a few moments ago is now burrowing into the hollow between Flack's arm and chest. All I can do is shake my head and turn back to Theresa, who's watching the scene with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

"Mrs. Emiliano, the boat is insured under your oldest son's name," I say, turning her attention back to the fact that we're here to get evidence, "Is Marco here now?"

"No," she replies, shaking her head, "Junior isn't here. He's gone out."

"Has he taken the boat?"

"It's in the garage," she says absently, watching as Flack clips a bit of Victoria's fur and hands it to Danny to be placed in a collection vial.

"If you could show us, we'll need to take a look at it," I say and she nods before leading me through the living room. "Danny, can you show pictures of the victim to Mrs. Emiliano? She might recognize him."

He nods his assent and then I'm being swept away, Theresa's arm firmly surrounding my shoulders. I look down at her, confused, but the gesture doesn't feel threatening. It feels more like a mother guiding a wayward child away from a toy store window. Normally if a suspect's mother was dragging me somewhere I would have been quick to defend myself, but something about the way she pulls me close tells me that I'm in no danger whatsoever.

Suddenly we're out in a deceptively large garage, where the SUV we saw earlier is parked with the boat. The boat looked much smaller from afar, but it actually takes up the grand majority of the garage and just barely manages not to scrape the ceiling. She locks the screen door behind her and turns to me, her eyes narrowed in a menacing glare that belied her otherwise gentle face. I have no idea what she could possibly have to say, but I listen closely anyway.

"You listen to me," she says in rapid Italian and doesn't wait to see if I understand. "If you're here to take my boys, you make sure your case is infallible."

"In English, please," I reply in Italian and she scoffs as though she should have known that Italian wasn't my strength.

"I am their mother. I love my husband, and I love my sons," she starts, "But I am a God-fearing Catholic woman and I do _not _believe in what they're doing. They are hurting people, and they are going against the laws of this country. 'Give unto Caesar that which is Caesar's,'" she quotes, placing her hand over her heart. Before facing me she gives me a look that would freeze any good Catholic child in their tracks. "I will not help you take my boys away. If you catch them, on the other hand, I have no choice but to let them go. If you mean to arrest them, make your case and make it well because you will not have a second chance."

"I'm not here to break up your family," I say honestly. "If your sons are guilty of anything, it will come out through our investigation and the physical evidence; not through any prejudices on our part. I can assure you of that."

She simply smiles and presses her warm palm against my cheek.

"You're a good girl. Your parents must be proud," she says and all I do is give a brief nod of my head. "Now you go on and do your investigating. I'm going back inside to make sure that good-looking detective doesn't run off with my dog."

I spare a brief laugh after her departure and turn to the boat that's waiting for me. Just two days ago it was speeding after me in the middle of the ocean, and now I'm on it looking for evidence. I walk around to the back and reach for the ladder that's hanging off, struggling to pull myself the rest of the way up. I finally manage, and I pull myself onboard just in time to hear a door slam and a lot of very choice Italian curses. They don't sound female, though, so I have an idea that the Emiliano boys have crashed our little party.

I barely have time to prepare myself before the screen door that opens into the garage is slammed open and two men come through it. One is tall with lighter hair and has decidedly less years on him than the other, who has a ruddy complexion and a very obvious widow's peak. It's the older man that's making all the noise, I see, when he starts throwing every cuss word in the book at me. This kind of behavior I'm used to; what unnerves me is the other brother's apparent fascination with me. I feel his eyes following me and it's getting hard to ignore. I kneel down to take a sample from the yacht's carpet that I already know will match the sample we have back at the lab.

"This is ridiculous," the older brother yells up at me. "You have no right to be doing this to us."

"Your mother has the warrant, Mr. Emiliano," I say, not even pausing to look at him. "I can assure you we do."

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that," he says under his breath and reaches for the cell phone that's clipped onto his belt. He marches off somewhere to have his conversation in private, and I have the offhanded thought that he'll be talking to his lawyer if he has as much brains as he has bravado. That kind of occurrence is rare in nature, I know, so I don't hold my breath.

"Do I know you?"

I stop what I'm doing and stare at the younger brother—George, I think is his name—and he stares right back at me. I get a little nervous when he seems to come to a conclusion, but then he makes a face and waves the thought away with a quick movement of his arm.

"Nah, never mind," he says. "Forget about it."

If only I could.

Moments later Flack and Danny are coming into the increasingly cramped garage, Theresa following them. Marco Junior is still screaming on his cell phone a few feet away, George is staring at me trying to figure out how he recognizes me, and Victoria is wriggling in Theresa's arms and barking like she's trying to scare off an army. Danny and Flack simply look around like they're lost, trying to comprehend the scene that's in front of him. It's Flack that catches my eye, giving me a serious expression that I know has nothing to do with our conversation yesterday afternoon.

"We've got company," he says solemnly. "Newark PD just showed up."

"What do they want?" I ask, handing Danny the sample of carpet I collected.

"Our case," he replies, the annoyance abundantly apparent in his voice. "What else could they possibly want when we've already done the grunt work for them?"

"Since jurisdiction is a bit of a toss-up right now, I'd say we stand a chance of holding onto it," Danny tells me as he offers me his arm to help me climb down from the boat. "But the guy's waiting to talk to you in person."

"Oh, joy," I say, lowering myself onto the ground. A quick look at Flack and Danny's faces tell me that they're feeling exactly the same way.

Detective Matthew Trent is waiting for me in the living room, a smug smile on his pancake face. One of his bicuspids is missing, and it's this view of him that I'm presented with immediately upon entering the room. He rocks back and forth on his heels, his eyes wandering over me in a fashion that is hardly professional. I clear my throat and his eyes jump to mine, the smile never leaving his face. I've dealt with him once before, a few years ago, and the man hasn't handled age well.

"Stella," he says, nodding his head by way of greeting.

"What is this, Trent?" I ask, hands on hips. "You can just wait for NYPD to do all the leg work and then take the case to court. That's not how it works."

"It is when you're in our jurisdiction," he says and hands me a very obviously court-prepared document bound with blue parchment. I have to wonder how he's managed to get it so soon—we've barely been in Newark an hour—but it doesn't surprise me one bit that Matthew Trent has superpowers when it comes to screwing someone else over. I scan my eyes over the document, and it says very clearly that we are to turn over our evidence to the Newark crime lab.

"This doesn't make sense!" I cry, thrusting the document back at him, "The victim was found on the beach in New York, Trent. We've just tracked evidence back here."

"Your crime scene is currently in Newark," he says, nodding at the direction I came from. "That's why you're taking part of the carpet, right? Because it's the original crime scene?"

"It's a boat, you idiot," I say impatiently, "Of course it moves. It doesn't mean that the murder took place in Port Newark. For the body to have washed up on our beach so soon after it was dumped, it would have to have been dumped much closer to New York."

"My judge seems to think differently."

"Yeah, well, your judge can shove it," I say, exceedingly pissed. "We'll split the evidence we've collected with you, and you can expect to be hearing from one of our judges."

"I look forward to it," he says and I shove past him, intending to place a call to a judge I'm friendly with. When I go through the front door, George is standing out on the lawn and smoking a cigarette. He acknowledges me with a quick upturn of his chin and he exhales, the smoke coming out of his mouth in rings.

"I know you from somewhere," he says, pointing at me and then at his head. "I don't know where yet, but I will."

"I doubt it's me you're thinking about," I say simply, reaching for my phone only to realize that I left it sitting on the side of the boat when I was collecting the carpet fiber. I grunt in frustration and will George to walk away, leaving me to my thoughts. I try to ignore the fact that he's there, but he keeps trying.

"You don't go sailing do you?" he asks me and I bristle.

"No."

"You should," he says. "It suits you."

"I'll have to try it sometime," I say sarcastically and finally he walks away. I turn around to watch his exit and find Flack standing on the porch, studying me. We both stare at the other, waiting for George Emiliano to get out of hearing range. His hands are jammed into his pockets and his stance is rigid; he's not happy, and I completely understand why.

"We'll fight it," I say, "They don't have any solid proof to confirm that the murder took place in Jersey waters. I'll get Sid to confirm that for the body to have washed up where and when it did, it's far more likely that he was murdered in New York waters."

"You think it'll hold up?" he asks me and I nod.

"Definitely."

"Then that's all we can do, isn't it?" he says and stares at me for a little longer before offering my cell phone to me. "You left it in the garage."

"Thank you," I say, taking it back. "I've been leaving it everywhere lately."

"You had a call," he says. "From Raphael."

My heart goes still.

"You didn't answer it did you?" I ask, my voice tight.

"No, I didn't," he says, walking down the steps of the porch to stand directly in front of me. "But the pieces came together pretty fast after that."

"What do you mean?" I ask. "He's just some guy I'm dating right now. It's nothing serious."

"I think it's a lot more serious than you're letting on," he observes. "Jimmy Corelli gets murdered, and suddenly you're disappearing for days and getting calls from a guy named Raphael? It doesn't match up, Stel. I may not be as smart as you but I'm not dumb, either."

"Of course not," I say quickly.

"Talk a walk with me," he says, weaving his arm around my shoulders and I have no choice but to follow. "We have some talking to do, you and I."

**A/N: Thanks again for sticking around for such a long chapter! Please review on the way out, because I need a smile today. **


	19. The Ties That Blind

**Author's Note:**

**Hello all! I'm so sorry that it's taken me so long to get this chapter up, but writer's block hit at a very inopportune time. In any case: here it is! This is another very long chapter, but I trust you won't mind. ;) I'll have another chapter up in a week or so--I'm going on spring break and won't have access to the internet. Coming back to your reviews would be marvelous. =)  
**

**Chapter Nineteen**

"**The Ties That Blind"**

"I feel like this a hit, Flack," I say nervously as he leads me away from the house. "Should I be worried?"

"Maybe you should be. Then you would know what it's felt like to be me the last couple of days," he says and I can detect the bitterness that he's trying to keep out of his voice.

"There's no reason to be worried, Flack. I know what I'm doing," I say adamantly, but I don't think he's buying it. I'm not entirely sure what he thinks I'm doing, but I'm going to keep being purposefully vague until I get a better idea.

"I'm assuming that the Raphael that called you is Robby's younger brother," he says, "Raphael doesn't seem to have much connection with the family business, but he's dangerous. We've been waiting for a reason to get him in the system for years."

"I think he's the one that killed Jimmy Corelli," I tell him. "The fingerprint on the knife that killed Corelli came up with seven other murders, one of them a Marine."

"It wouldn't surprise me."

We're leaning against the car now and looking back at the house, where bedlam has broken out in our absence. Flack and I stare helplessly as Danny tries to mediate the circus of family members that are throwing a fit inside the house. I see him pacing back and forth across the window and I consider bowing out of my current conversation to help him, but the look in Flack's eyes tells me that I'm not going anywhere.

"How long?" he asks me.

"How long what?"

"How long have you been undercover?" he asks.

"A week or so, but it feels much longer," I answer, knowing that this is as far as I'm willing to stretch our friendship. There's a breaking point, and we're getting closer to it every day. "It's why I didn't tell you. I couldn't."

"I wish you had," he says and he sounds tired now rather than angry. "You're not invincible, Stella. You could have used backup, protection."

"Both of which I have," I reply.

"Is that so?" he asks, obviously skeptical. "Who?"

I sigh.

"Do you remember the night you came to get me from the warehouse? When I was handcuffed to the ladder?" I ask, "The night after we found Corelli's body?"

He nods. "Yeah, I do."

"The man who did that was working the case from another angle. He's a Marine MP," I explain and watch the different moods flash over his face. "We've been working together."

"Wasn't he a suspect?" Flack cries incredulously.

"Until the evidence told me that he wasn't," I state firmly, refusing to budge on this fact. "You know I wouldn't be doing this if it was going to compromise evidence."

"I'm not talking about evidence here," he almost yells, "I'm talking about your life! You may not take it into consideration when you're running around trying to save the world, but I do."

"Of course I do."

"Then act like it," he says. "From now on, you don't go anywhere near Raphael Benevuto without telling me first. I'll shadow you and keep an eye out."

"I have a bodyguard, Flack."

"Apparently not," he says and pulls my right wrist out, where Billy Crusoe's bruises have almost disappeared. "I noticed these yesterday. Nobody would have noticed the one under your eye, but it's a little swollen today." He meets my eyes before letting my wrist fall. "Your bodyguard isn't good enough."

"Raphael didn't do this," I'm quick to say, "These are from trying to escape the Emiliano brothers Monday afternoon. Mac looks worse than I do."

"Escape?" he asks. "What do you mean?"

"We were going to take pictures for evidence," I explain, "And they saw us spying. We probably could have made something up, but they started shooting and we didn't have the chance. We had to crash the boat so they'd stop chasing us."

"You crashed a boat?" he asks, "While you were still on it?"

I nod, because I have no other way of explaining what we went through to make sure we wouldn't get caught. I've noticed that you can complain about your life all you want, and then it's on the line and you're scrambling to save it. Flack, I know, understands this to some extent because he nods his head slowly. He wants to question me more, I can tell by the way he looks at me, but he knows there's a time and place for that—neither of which is right here, right now.

"Who were you taking pictures of?"

The question is simple, and I know that means he's moved on for the time being. Unfortunately that doesn't make my answer any more reasonable to him. I sigh, knowing that I'm about to get an earful.

"Danny Stimpson."

"You've got to be kidding me," he says, running his hand roughly through his dark hair. "This guy takes you with him to take pictures of a drug dealer that, _coincidentally_, happens to get murdered the same day? Give me a break, Stella."

"Mac didn't kill him," I defend, "The time of death Sid gave us was way before Mac and I were even on dry land. He wouldn't have had the opportunity, or the motive." When he says nothing I continue, "Besides, the evidence led us here. We know who killed him."

"Without ballistics it'll be hard to prove," Flack reminds me.

"Lindsay is working on that right now," I assure him. "That's why we have the warrant to search the house. If the gun is here, we'll find it."

"You really think it's that simple, don't you?" he asks. "We'll have to let that rat Trent take the case, you know? We can't take the chance of them recognizing you. The less involvement you have in their case the better."

I nod my head, even though agreeing hurts my pride a bit.

"And I want to talk to this Taylor guy," he says, "We're going to have a few words."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Flack," I reply, when I'm actually thinking that it could be the worst idea ever uttered aloud. "I'm not supposed to have even told you."

"That's not the worst of your problems," he says matter-of-factly.

"You're telling me," I mutter and head back toward the house. "This discussion is over. We have more important things to worry about."

"I'm sure Danny appreciates your concern," he says, following me. "Are you going to call Raphael back?"

"I don't know yet," I say truthfully. I don't really want to, but I've gone a bit too far to turn back now.

"If you do, though, you'll call," he says. "Right?"

"I'll think about it," I say and walk back in the house, preparing to admit defeat to a man I'd much rather give a black eye to. I feel Flack behind me and I feel an enormous amount of relief in knowing that he's got my back. Danny is flustered and looking ready to jump out the window, but I know that he's with me, too.

It makes my decision easier.

-----

"I just don't get it," Danny says, still stunned. We're driving back into Manhattan now; Flack and I are happy to have Jersey safely in our rearview mirror. I'm sitting up front, and Danny is leaning up from the back seat to try and wrap his mind around our decision.

"Are you sure that's what the judge said?" he asks for at least the fifth time since we left the Emilianos in the care of Trent and his battalion of goons. "He said those exact words?"

"No, we're lying," Flack says sarcastically. "Give it a rest, already. Jersey has the case, end of story. We'll have plenty more to take its place."

"Well, yeah, of course," he's quick to say, "But I can't believe we lost it. I was so sure we were in the right on this one."

"It happens," I say ambiguously and I pray that he leaves it alone. Of course I hate having to hand the case over to Trent, but the more involvement I have in this case the more likely it is that I'll cross paths with Raphael as a detective rather than a dance teacher. It's a risk I can't afford to take, so I'll let Trent take credit. It wouldn't be worth the effort of stopping him, anyway.

It's late when we reach the lab. Most of the techs have already gone home, but I'm not surprised to find Lindsay still working on ballistics. She gives us a smile as we come through the door, and then she must notice the unhappy looks on our faces because then she frowns and her brow furrows. We walk into her little room of the lab and the first thing she does is take out a large black gun and set it on the table in front of her.

"This is our murder weapon. It was found on the beach a few hours ago, half a mile away from where we found the body," she states bluntly, still observing us. When none of us immediately comment she asks, "What's up with you guys?"

"Newark PD took our case," Danny replies while Flack and I decline to comment. "I mean _our _case, right? We did all the work. But a judge said they had jurisdiction, so it's theirs."

"Did you contest it?" she asks and I nod.

"Yeah, Stella did," Danny says, "But it didn't do us any good."

Lindsay's eyes catch mine and hold them for just a second before nodding her head.

"So I guess all the ballistics need to be sent to Newark, then," she says and we all nod.

"It's great work anyway, Montana," Flack says.

"Yeah, thanks," she says and moves for an evidence bag large enough to handle the gun. This is what we'll be doing the rest of the night; a lot of paperwork goes into transferring evidence to hands other than our own. It'll take two days for Newark to get all the information they need, after which our involvement in the case will cease to exist. As I watch Danny and Lindsay scowl over the turn of bad luck, I watch Flack stiffen next to me and I can sympathize with his discomfort. Finding myself on edge, I ignore their stares and leave the office. Once out of hearing range and locked safely in my own office, I sit behind my desk and pull out my cell phone.

Five minutes later, my date with Raphael is set.

-----

"So?" Mac asks me as he follows me through the door. "What happened?"

"I got ambushed. That's what happened," I grumble, throwing my purse on the couch. "I would rather have been testifying in a circus of a courtroom than having dinner in that house."

My date with Raphael was eventful, to say the least. When we talked on the phone, he told me to wear something on the casual side. It was a surprise, he said. The phrase made me nervous, but I went. I met him at the Starbucks he requested, and when he appeared at the curb I was incredibly reluctant to climb in his shiny black Mercedes. I knew the entire time that Mac was close by, but that didn't make me feel much better. The relief was fractional compared to the unease. Imagine my surprise when I realized we were headed out of town.

"_Where are we going?" I ask, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. Every cell in my body is telling me that this is a terrible, terrible thing I'm doing. _

"_You'll see."_

_They're the only words to come out of his mouth as we leave Manhattan behind us. I check the mirrors every so often to see the tell-tale glow of Mac's headlights. There are several vehicles behind us, and there's no way of telling them apart. I tell myself that Mac is among them, and I don't feel anything that would convince me otherwise. Raphael seems calm, and makes polite conversation as we drive. I answer him as best I can, but I don't like being in the dark about where we're going. It makes my stomach slide around uneasily, and that's just another thing I have to think about._

_When we get closer to our destination, Raphael starts to whistle. It takes me a while, but I place the song. _

"'_Homeward Bound,'" I say, staring over at him, "Simon and Garfunkel." _

"_Good ear," he says and my jaw clenches as we pull up to a giant white house that looks much too familiar to be comfortable. He kills the engine and pockets his keys, looking over at me with a curious and mildly amused expression. I can only give him a small smile that I hope covers for the fact that inside, I'm shaking._

"_Welcome to the Benevuto home," he says._

"I had a feeling I knew where he was going," Mac tells me as I pull off my shoes and walk out of the room to throw them back in my closet.

"Surprised the hell out of me," I reply bitterly. "I had no warning, nothing. He mentioned dinner, but not with his family for God's sake. I swear, this gets worse with every passing day. I haven't had so many miserable days in a row in my life."

"I couldn't keep as good an eye on you once you were inside," Mac says, "What happened?"

"Oh, you know. Introductions," I say sarcastically, searching desperately for something that could calm my frazzled nerves. "Retired mob bosses have a softer grip than you'd think. It's his mother that I was afraid of. She looked at me like I was there to set the house on fire."

Mac only chuckles and I send him a glare.

"Yeah, laugh it up," I swear, "You weren't the one on the hot seat."

I open the refrigerator door out of listlessness than anything else, and I push a few containers of leftovers to the side. Searching blindly, I find something that I'd almost forgotten existed. My hands come to rest on the bottle of chardonnay that I've been saving for a special occasion, and I think that this most certainly counts as special. I pull it out of the refrigerator and hold it up for inspection, turning to Mac. He takes a quick look at the bottle and gives me a small smile that just barely turns up one corner of his mouth. It strikes me in that moment how handsome he is, and I can't help my own smile.

"I think you could use a drink," he says simply, and I take that as a yes.

"Anyway, I wasn't even getting the worst end of the woman," I say, reaching for the glasses I keep in the cabinet. "Roberto's wife—Janet, I think her name was—looked miserable. Raphael's mother kept making these snide little comments to her all night about what she was wearing, or what her kids were doing. The poor woman looked like she had at least three Vicodin in her already, and she most definitely wanted more."

"Sounds eventful," he says, obviously amused.

"Oh, eventful wasn't the half of it."

_There's a division in some families that ends up playing out like a bad junior high dance: the girls are one side, and the boys are on the other. Right now I'm in the kitchen, taken under the wing of a woman who is obviously younger than me—early thirties or so—and who very obviously wishes she was somewhere else. Her name is Janet, and she's Raphael's sister-in-law. Her daughter is helping set the table while we all stand in the kitchen, placing the meal on separate serving trays. Connie—the mother—and Janet have very obviously perfected their routine; they're able to move about the kitchen as completely separate entities, never touching. I stand to the side, feeling useless and out of my mind with nerves that won't seem to calm._

"_Is there something I can do?" I offer lamely, my eyes moving from Janet to her mother-in-law. Neither seems willing to look up and break the routine. The kitchen remains silent and I go back to leaning against the counter, ticking off the seconds before I can get the hell out of here. I'm starting to doubt that Mac is within a reasonable distance, which doesn't make me feel any better about being trapped here._

_When dinner is finally served, I'm sitting awkwardly between Raphael and Janet. Her children—Leona and a toddler named Robby—are seated across the table, next to their father. Michael, the patriarch, is seated at the head of the table and looks silently over the rest of his family like a king deciding whose head he wanted to lop off first. His wife sits to his left, and on Raphael's other side is John Ross—the notorious family lawyer. I'm having the time of my life, of course, and what else could make it better?_

"_Kevin will be dropping by, soon," Raphael says and I'm certain my heart stops._

"Kevin?" Mac asks me as he accepts his glass of wine, "As in Kevin La Salle?"

"None other," I say, lifting my glass in a small and sarcastic toast.

"_He's a friend of mine," Raphael explains to me, misinterpreting my look of sheer panic for confusion. "We've been best friends since high school. You'll like him."_

"_I'm sure I will," I say and offer him a smile. _

_Kevin arrives just a few minutes later, announcing his apologies to the group as he charges into the dining room. He offers Michael and Roberto a firm handshake, sparing a kiss for Connie and Janet before nodding at John and Raphael and finding his seat at the far end of the table. He picks up his glass of water and takes a drink before his colorless gray eyes look over the rim of the glass and meet mine. Slowly, his thin mouth stretches into a smile that I'm sure he thinks is charming._

"_Who might this be?" he asks, his eyes never leaving mine. _

"_This is Stella," Raphael says, his voice leaden with meaning that Kevin seems to understand much better than I do. "She's been kind enough to meet us for dinner." Then he turns to me. "Stella, this is my friend I was telling you about."_

"_Kevin La Salle," he offers, nodding his head in my direction. His wire-rimmed glasses slide down his nose a fraction and he absently pushes them back up with the side of his finger. I have the instant fear that he'll recognize me—despite the fact that he's only seen me only once or twice, and only for a few minutes—but he comes to no sudden realization. _

"_Nice to meet you," I hear myself say, and the voice sounds alien._

"I was terrified that he would recognize me," I tell Mac, taking a long pull from my wine glass. "It's been almost two years since I've handled one of his cases, but I was terrified to take the chance."

"I'm guessing he didn't," Mac says casually.

"I got really lucky."

"That seems to happen a lot," he notes.

"Not as much as I wish it would," I sigh and he laughs. "Anyway, dinner was ridiculous. I don't think I've ever had a quieter or more awkward meal in my entire life." I laugh and run my fingers through my hair. "That includes a lifetime of bad dates."

"It could have gone much worse, all things considered."

"You have a point there," I say, polishing off my wine with one last gulp. I'm not generally a lightweight when it comes to my alcohol, but I must have drank it a little faster than I needed to—my head is a little fuzzy, and I can feel my cheeks getting warmer.

"But nothing else happened?" he asks, taking my glass from me and sitting it on the coffee table in front of us. He pours me another half-glass, and hands it back to me.

"About halfway through the meal I started hearing a lot of loud sounds coming from upstairs," I say. "I thought the Giants were practicing or something. I look around, and I think I'm the only one that hears it until Raphael laughs and tells me that it's his Uncle Gino."

"Gino?" he asks, "Michael's brother?"

"One and the same," I confirm. "Gino, as it turns out, is quite the character. According to Raphael, he used to be the family's accountant but fifteen years ago he snapped. Decides that he doesn't want to crunch numbers anymore, and he quits. Now he spends his time learning magic tricks and tending the garden."

"Interesting guy," Mac says, obviously pleased by the idea.

"He is most definitely interesting. He's got this frizzy gray hair and thick black glasses," I say with a laugh. "If they ever make a movie about this family like they did with 'The Godfather,' Woody Allen is a shoo-in. So he comes down to dinner after another five minutes of chaos upstairs, and he's shocked to see me at the table. He stops in his tracks, makes this weird gasping sound, and then runs right out of the room."

I laugh and lean a little closer to Mac, enjoying telling this part of the story. He's smiling, too. He's resting his head on his hand, his eyes focused solely on me. This time, when I feel my face start to heat up, I know it has very little to do with the wine.

"A few minutes later he scurries back in with a handful of flowers and dirt," I say, "And he looks at me and says, 'You must be Stella!' as though he'd been expecting me all night. He sets the flowers down on this perfect white linen tablecloth—dirt, roots, and all—and then moves quietly to the end of the table, sitting down to pick up a fork and dig in.

"Of course I looked around to see if anyone was watching this, and they were all eating and minding their own business like it happened every day," I exclaim.

"What did you do?" he asks me, leaning forward a moment to put his glass back on the coffee table.

"What could I do?" I reply. "I thanked him for the flowers and finished my meal."

At this Mac laughs, really laughs, and I can't help but beam at him.

"Anyway," I say, dragging my eyes away from him, "It was all pretty quick after that. I made some polite small talk over dinner and then Raphael called me a cab. He said he would have taken me home himself, but there was a family emergency he needed to take care of."

"That sounds ominous," Mac comments, "I wonder what it means."

"I'm trying not to think about it too hard," I sigh. "I don't think my heart stopped racing the entire time I was in that house. I was losing my mind wondering what he was up to; which, of course, ended up being nothing. He just said that he wanted me to meet his family."

"Strange."

"Tell me about it," I say. "But it's over now. It's done. He said he'd call me again soon, so I have _that _to look forward to."

"You know I have your back," he says solemnly, pointedly staring. I nod and he continues, "Good, because I have something for you."

"Should I be worried?" I say, watching as he reaches his hand into his pocket.

"I don't know why you would be," he says, handing me something small and silver. "Most women like jewelry. Or so I've heard."

My hand reaches out, I can see it, but I have no recollection of telling it to do so. My fingers take the small ring from his, the tips barely grazing the brazenly blue stone that graces the top of the silver band. I don't know if I've stopped breathing, but it's harder to collect my thoughts than I would have imagined possible. I feel Mac staring while I investigate the small object, turning it over and over in between my fingers. I haven't dared put it on yet.

"It's a panic button," he finally says, covering my hands with his own. "You turn the stone twice and it sends a signal to my phone with your coordinates. If you need me for anything at all, just twist that around and I'll be there in a few seconds."

Be still, my heart.

"Finally, jewelry that has a purpose," I say bluntly, fighting to keep the giggle rising in the back of my throat from making an appearance. I would never be able to live that down, of that I'm certain. His skin is hovering fractions of an inch from mine as I slide the ring onto my right hand, admiring the cool shine of the silver band and the glow of the blue stone against my skin.

"I feel like thanks are in order, but it would sound stupid now," I say, catching his eye and finding him closer to me than I thought.

"Rain check, then," he says softly and runs his thumb over my knuckles before taking my hand and pulling me forward.

I go gladly, my lips finding his chin first and then working upward to meet his in a movement that feels like barely a glance. The effect is startling; my chest constricts and my brain shuts off completely, abandoning me. I feel him pulling my arm forward, and then I'm voluntarily wrapping it around him. His lips are playing gently on mine, slowly and surely driving me mad, but I'm not a patient woman. I lean forward and trap him against the arm of the couch; my body _finally _pressed fully along his. My hand braces against the muscles in his chest, and it's easy to feel the steadily quickening beat under the palm of my hand. It amazes me that I can be responsible for that kind of reaction in a man like Mac Taylor.

The next time he kisses me, there's nothing soft about it. His lips are hungry, demanding, and I can't help but cling to him like a desperate woman lost in the tide. Wantonly confident, I pull my mouth from his and kiss only the corners, one at a time. His top lip falls prey next, followed by the bottom lip. I work my way across the chiseled line of his jaw and up toward his ear, fueled on by the feel of his hands gripping my shoulders as I touch my lips to a place he seems to like. Tingles that feel more like lightning erupt as his broad palms search for bare skin, finally resting on the sliver of flesh revealed by the gap between my shirt and slacks. His fingertips have barely breached the hem of my shirt before my mouth is on his once again, telling him without any doubt whatsoever the effect he seems to have on me. When his bare hand is resting against my rib cage, the side of my shirt pushed gently up, a brief knock on the door stops us both in our tracks.

We're both silent and completely still for a moment, waiting to see if it was actually my door that was demanding attention. A few seconds pass and it's there again, louder this time. The harsh cadence tells me exactly who it is and I groan, letting my head fall onto Mac's chest.

"Where's my gun?" I ask, and neither of us seems to know if I'm serious.

"I think it's best you don't know," he replies, running his hands slowly down my back.

"Stella!" Flack exclaims from the other side of the door. "Stella, open up. I know you're home."

"That's it. I'm going to kill him," I seethe. "I'm going to find my gun, and I'm going to kill him."

"Take it easy for a second," Mac says, grabbing my wrists and holding me firmly against him. "Maybe it's better if you just let him in and see what he wants."

"With you still here?" I ask, and it's no secret that the idea doesn't thrill either of us.

He shrugs. "You already told him about me."

"I had to," I plead. "He could have ruined everything. At least he's only obnoxious in private now."

"I know you had to," he says easily. "So it's no secret. Just let him in."

"I'm so going to regret this," I mumble, climbing off of him to stand on my own shaky legs. I pull my shirt down and adjust it, hoping to smooth the wrinkles. Apparently it's impossible, but I start laughing when I realize that I feel like a teenager caught in the act. Mac seems to read my mind, as per usual, and laughs along with me. We're both tempted to get caught up in a fit of hysteria before Flack is pounding on the door again, reminding me—perhaps unwittingly—of the fact that I am _really _not happy with him right now.

I march to the door and open it just wide enough to see him.

"What do you want, Don?" I ask and there's no doubt in either of us that my use of his first name is anything other than casual.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says adamantly, doing his best to look around me. "Is someone here with you? You took a while getting to the door."

I sigh and fix him with a pointed stare.

"Yes, someone is here," I say, "So if you could come back another time that would be great."

"Yeah, nice try," he says and pushes his way into my apartment. I'm tempted to curse at him in a language that he won't understand and order him out of my house, but it takes me just under a second to realize that Flack's poor manners are the least of my problems.

Flack is standing just inside the doorway and Mac is still on the couch, reclining casually with one leg crossed over the other. They're staring each other down like two duelers in an old western movie, and I'm tempted to roll my eyes. I would have if I wasn't so sure it would have resulted in a full-out brawl in the middle of my living room. Cleaning up after two idiots isn't on my list of things to do for the rest of the night, so I stand quietly and wait for them to finish their little staring contest. Not surprisingly, Flack is the first to speak up.

"I guess you're Mac Taylor."

"I guess you're Flack," Mac replies, totally nonchalant. "Stella's told me a lot about you."

"Yeah, I bet," he says and the animosity is apparent in his voice, "I'm afraid I can't say the same about you. The only thing I understand about you is that you feel the need to handcuff cops to ladders and leave them."

I watch as the muscles in Mac's jaw tense, but there's no other evidence that the comment bothered him. My eyes flit nervously between the two, wondering once again if this little altercation is going to result in something far more violent. Knowing both men the way I do, it's not entirely out of the question. Mac, however, doesn't seem to feel the need to rise to Flack's bait. I don't know who hates it more.

"Why are you here, Flack?" I ask, unwilling to let the heavy silence stretch out for another hour. It would have, too, if it had been up to them.

"I was hoping to have a discussion with Mr. Marine here," he says, cutting his eyes at Mac, "Privately."

The look on Mac's face says very clearly that he doesn't appreciate the nickname.

"Oh, no," I interrupt, "I don't think so. If there are going to be any discussions about anything, they're going to be in front of me."

"I don't see a problem with that," Mac says, his voice like tempered steel. It never ceases to amaze me how calm he seems when a quick look at his eyes tells me that he's furious.

"From now on, I'm keeping an eye on Stella," Flack says, leaving no room for argument on either of our parts. "I get the calls of where she's going and when. You can tag along if you want but now that one of my CSI's are involved, she's my responsibility."

Mac raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't look impressed.

"I'm not entirely sure what Stella's told you, Detective Flack, but this was my case to start out with," he says. "Raphael Benevuto is responsible for the death of a Marine, which makes him—and everyone else involved in the investigation—my responsibility."

"I'm my own damn responsibility, thanks very much," I say from the corner of the room, my voice rising like that of a petulant child. It doesn't seem to matter, though, because neither of them is paying any attention to me.

"You've neglected that responsibility, though, haven't you?" Flack instigates and I can't help the tiny intake of breath that comes instantly after his words. "See, I pay attention to my co-workers. The bruises on her wrists and under her eye tell me that you don't know the first thing about getting someone's back."

The air in my apartment is deathly still, and I look nervously over at Mac. If you had just walked in, you'd think he was entirely calm and in control. I, on the other hand, can most definitely tell the difference. His jaw is clenched and his lips are pressed into a thin line; his eyes are clear but intensely focused on the man standing in front of him. I feel the hate radiating of both these men in waves—they probably would have killed each other already if I hadn't been in the room. I have no idea what I can even do about it, so I clear my throat and move to stand between them.

"Okay, Flack, you've said what you came here to say," I tell him, looking over at him only to realize that he's still fixated on whatever staring contest he and Mac are in the middle of. "I think we've had enough excitement for the night." I turn to look at Mac. "That means both of you."

Apparently it's my voice that shocks Mac out of his trance. He blinks and looks at me for a brief second. My expression must have been intimidating enough to get my point across, because now he's pulling himself off the couch and walking towards the door. He passes me and holds my gaze for just a second before giving Flack a cursory glance. We both watch, astounded, as he reaches for the door handle. Halfway out in the hall, he turns around to face us.

"Goodnight, Stella," he says. "See you around, Flack."

"Yeah," Flack replies lamely and all I can do is nod as he walks out the door and closes it behind him. We barely hear the sound of his footsteps fading away, and even after we're both sure he's gone we're frozen in place, waiting for him to come back. It takes a minute, but it finally sinks in.

"You idiot!" I cry, smacking his arm. "You couldn't be professional, could you? Oh, no. You had to charge in here and start with all your macho bullshit."

"I don't like the man, Stel," he says as though that was the most obvious explanation in the world. "Maybe you do, whatever, but he's still a suspect in my book. Trust has to be earned, not given."

"Isn't it enough that I trust him?" I ask, storming into the kitchen to find another bottle of chardonnay that I can drown my sorrows in.

"No, it isn't," Flack answers, following me.

"I told you he was innocent," I say angrily, shoving the food in my refrigerator around. "But did you listen to me? No… of course not. That would have been too easy."

"Listen, just because you feel the need to share your lipstick with him doesn't mean I have to, too," he says from just a few feet away and I stop what I'm doing. I turn around slowly, facing him, my eyes narrowed in his direction. When words finally escape my mouth, they're slow and deliberate.

"Excuse me?"

"Your lipstick is smeared," he says and the animosity in his voice almost rivals his discussion with Mac. "It took you a while to answer the door. I can put two and two together."

"Get out."

He blinks at me, obviously taken aback.

"What?"

"I said get out," I say, pointing at the door. "You just came here to start a damn fight, and I'm not pacifying you! Just leave!"

"I'm here because I want to keep you safe, Stella," he says earnestly and I can't help the bitter scoff that tears itself from my lips.

"If I knew that telling you what I've been doing was going entail putting up with this, I wouldn't have done it," I say, storming up to him and pushing him in the direction of the door. He fights back a little, but he moves. "If I get even one hint at a scene like that again, no one is getting any calls and I'll be on my own. Got it?"

"Stella, I was just trying to help," he says as we reach the door. I throw it open and push him into the hallway, glaring at him while he openly gapes at my behavior.

"Go help someone who needs it."

I shut the door, lock it, and watch through the peep-hole as Flack opens his mouth, shuts it, shakes his head, and then walks off. When I'm sure he's gone I turn around and lean back on the door, taking deep breaths that I know will be doing absolutely nothing to lower my blood pressure. In the last hour I've managed to go from stressed and freaked out, to comfortable, to aroused, to horrified—with a dazzling finale of plain old pissed off. I think this is what happens when the currently most important people in my life are men. Flack is my best friend and co-worker, and Mac… well, I don't know what Mac is. But he's there, damn it.

My eyes drift down to my right hand and catch the glitter of the ring on my finger. The fact that he made a panic button out of jewelry fascinates me, and I have to admit that the man has good taste. The romantic in me is swooning at the sight of it, but luckily Rational Stella is the one that's in charge after a massive screaming match. Unable to help myself, I stare at it for a few moments and wonder if it counts as an emergency if I turn the ring twice and get him back here so I can yell at him, too.

Something tells me it doesn't, and suddenly all I want is to go to sleep. The day has been a long and stressful one, and the only thing I'm thinking about now is a much deserved hot bath. Unfortunately for me, nothing I've wanted recently has come to pass. When I walk into my bathroom the light is on—did I leave it like that when I left?—and the shower curtain is pulled back, which I know for a fact I didn't do. As I walk closer I see something lying in the bottom of the bathtub, which scares the hell out of me. My mind flicks back to the ring Mac gave me and my fingers search for it, somehow comforted by the cool metal. The sensation gives me the strength I need to walk another few steps, coming to rest beside the bathtub.

A quick look at the bottom sends a scream pouring out of my throat. I hear it echo off the walls and I grip the edge of the sink for support; it's probably the only thing that keeps me from sinking to the floor. My eyes are glued to the spot, unable to move away and find comfort elsewhere.

My razor, tiny and pink, has been dismembered and left on the tile.

-----

When I walk out of Stella's apartment building my temper is in full swing and I feel like hitting something. Since innocent passers-by aren't an option, I have no choice but to stand in the chilly air and wait for myself to calm down. I'm outside, trying to tell my pulse to stop racing, for maybe ten minutes before the door to Stella's building opens and Flack is standing at the top of the stairs, staring back down at me. Our eyes meet and neither of us says a word, waiting for the other to make the first move. I have no intention of doing anything without knowing what kind of tone this confrontation is going to take, so it's him that speaks.

"If you're planning on going back up and talking to her you're probably safer down here," he says knowingly but without any humor. "She's not too happy with either of us right now."

"I think it's understandable," I reply and he shrugs his shoulders. "Are you really planning on making this your new personal mission?"

"I don't think I have a choice," he replies. "Someone has to watch out for Stella."

"Stella's taken care of," I say, my mind turning back to the image of her smiling and sliding the ring over her finger. I try and justify the act—of course she needed a panic button—but I know that it could have been in just about anything other than jewelry. I picked the ring because it made me think of her, and only then decided that I could turn it into something necessary.

"I think we'll have to agree to disagree on that one," he says, sauntering down the stairs. "But Stella trusts you. God knows why, but she does." He looks me in the eye, unblinking. "For now, that's good enough for me."

"That sounds fair," I say, nodding. "I'll be sure to keep you in loop."

"Yeah, you'd better," he says, "Because if one thing goes wrong and she gets hurt, I'm going to come after Raphael, and then I'm going to come after you."

I'm sure I'm supposed to be insulted by his little speech, but I'm really not. If it were my best friend I would be feeling the same way. I'm not much for threats, though—giving them or getting them. I offer nothing but a nod and he walks away, climbing into a car that he's parked haphazardly along the curb. He speeds off after a few seconds, not bothering to look back at me and I'm a little grateful. I've managed to find myself in a terrible position with two cops who could make or break my plans. One—I think—is with me, and one is most definitely against me. It's my own doing, I know, but complications very rarely end up how we want them to.

I look up, searching for Stella's window, and I wonder if she would be completely adverse to me making another appearance. The look on her face just a few minutes before tells me that the last thing she wants is another round with me, so I turn away from the building and head for my car. My keys are heavier in my pocket than when I came up the steps just an hour before, and I know that's only because I don't want to leave. Hoping that she'll pick up the phone when I call her tomorrow, I content myself with the idea that she's safe for another night.

**A/N: Well, what do you think? I tried a new style for describing the date with Raphael, so if you have any opinions on that I would love to hear them. Thanks to Lily for this chapter--she's tired of her pillow, so now I owe her a ring like Stella's. I think I'll make hers purple, though. lol Who doesn't want one? Turn the stone and Mac appears? Please....**


	20. Nothing Gold Can Stay

**Author's Note:**

**Ah! Finally! I owe so many apologies, I know, for taking so very long to update this. Your reviews were all so marvelous, and I've let you down a little... from the bottom of my heart, I'm really sorry. I can only hope this chapter is enough to make up for the wait.**

**Oh, and you all get rings! ;)**

**Chapter Twenty**

"**Nothing Gold Can Stay"**

I've convinced myself that the incident with the razor didn't happen, that it couldn't have been real. Or—more likely—it must have fallen in the shower and then broken. In any case, it was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. At least that's what I like to tell myself. I picked up the pieces, my hands shaking, and threw them away. I haven't thought of them since. Mac would be furious if he found out I didn't tell him about this, but I can't make myself. Admitting to Mac that it worried me would be admitting that my home was no longer safe… that my sanctuary had been tainted, and had betrayed me. It's this idea that I'm not ready to face, and it buys my silence without a second thought.

Almost three days pass before I hear from Raphael again, and by then life almost seems to have gone back to normal. I spend my days—and some of my nights—at the lab with my team, carrying on with the caseloads that are constantly demanding our time. Then, after work, I spend my nights catching up with what Mac has accomplished during the day. He's managed to get blueprints from Benevuto's household, and he's bribed the family's chauffeur into telling him when Raphael went out alone. They're both small accomplishments, but they're accomplishments nonetheless.

Things between Flack and I seem to have lightened up, and that's something I'm incredibly grateful for. With Flack and me back in each other's good graces, the lab runs much smoother. My talks with Lindsay are now much more centered on wedding arrangements, but I don't feel nearly as comfortable in this arena. I have very little knowledge of flower arrangements and gowns, but for her I'm more than willing to go along for the ride. Even better, I don't feel her staring at me when we're at a crime scene anymore. For all intents and purposes, life has carried on. Part of me is relieved because mobster serial killers are the last things I want to worry about, but the other half of me knows that if Raphael doesn't call me back we may have lost our chance to catch him.

As simple as my life may have been for these few days, nothing like that is meant to last. Not really, anyway. I think I know that as I go on about my duties, examining crime scenes and chasing down leads. I can look up at the blue sky and smile, all the while bracing myself for the inevitable. Dark clouds hang perilously on the horizon, waiting to swoop in and release the flood that will send me downriver. It finally happens, of course. Just because I'm waiting for it doesn't mean it won't pull me under all the same.

-----

_Buzz._

This is the sound that wakes me up on the sacred occasion of my day off, but I have no idea where it's coming from. It must be the remnant of a dream—no one would dare call me this early—so I roll over and pretend it's not happening.

_Buzz._

_Buzz._

_BUZZ!_

"Fine! I'm awake!" I finally scream, throwing the blankets off me and reaching for the cell phone on my nightstand. I grope blindly, waiting to feel the cool texture beneath my fingertips. When I put the phone to my ear, I realize that I have no idea who's on the other end of the line. Like always, it's not a good surprise.

"Hello?" I say cautiously, careful not to use my last name.

"Did I wake you?" Raphael asks as thought it weren't just after seven in the morning.

"I was getting there," I say, rubbing my eyes. "Were you already awake?"

"I'm an early riser," he says simply, "Are you busy tonight?"

"Not that I know of," I answer, sitting up in bed. In all actuality, I had plans with Mac. There's an unspoken understanding, however, that says our work with Raphael comes first. He would understand, and then he would make plans to back me up. I always wonder how he stays so well out of sight, but if he's got any secrets he's not sharing them.

"I was hoping for dinner with a beautiful woman," he says, laying on the charm. "I've been staring at my brother's ugly mug for too long. I need a change of scenery."

"I could use one of those," I reply nonchalantly. "What did you have in mind?"

"Dinner at La Notte Stellata," he says, "It has some emotional attachment for me."

"Is that so?" I ask, rolling my eyes because I know he can't see me.

"I'm a man of my word," he says. "Can I meet you there tonight?"

"I think I can manage that," I say. "What time?"

After deciding on a time, he hangs up and I have the choice of who to call. Flack will be at work, I know. I also know he would be extremely pissed to find out that I went through with this without telling him first. Mac and I have arranged some agreement in which I always tell him where I'm going to the best of my ability, and he stays in the shadows nearby. It's worked well for us so far, but we haven't had any emergency situations yet. In the end I leave it to Mac—I give him Flack's phone number, and I let him make the decision for himself. My involvement is now over, which is what I wanted anyway.

The rest of the day passes without any incident, but suddenly the sun is setting and I find myself standing in front of my closet yet again. I choose a simple black dress with an open back, hoping that the weather will comply with my wardrobe choice. April is nearing its end now, but that doesn't mean the breezes can't have a bite once the sun goes down. I keep my hair and makeup simple, wishing that I could remain anonymous tonight. For someone who's wished her whole life to stand out in some way, it's a peculiar feeling. Tonight I just want to blend in.

Mac's ring is heavy on my finger as I lock my front door behind me. Once this tiny corner of my world is locked away, my head tilts up and there's confidence in my step again. I check twice to ensure that it's securely locked—which it is—and then take off down the hall, heading for the elevator. When I leave the building I feel Mac's eyes on me, even though I don't know where he is. The SUV he's been driving isn't in sight, but I know he's there. Staring out into the empty street I offer a slight wave, telling him that I'm ready.

La Notte Stellata comes into view and I'm ready everything it holds for me. The feeling of confidence doesn't waver even when I feel Raphael's breath on the back of my neck and hear his words just behind my left ear. I don't know or care how he seems to surprise me every time he appears. We got through the niceties of greetings with the host and the waiter once again as we're seated the booth we occupied a few days ago. Finally seated with wine and left to our own devices, Raphael turns his serpentine smile on me.

"You've had a nice week?" he asks simply and I nod, placing the linen napkin in my lap.

"I did. Children are so much fun to interact with," I say and imagine that it's true. "Teaching them is such a joy."

"I can imagine it is," he says. "How many students do you have?"

"Oh, close to fifty but only about ten or so at a time," I say, making things up as I go along. "The classes alternate their activity periods, so it's never an entire class that visits me at once." I take a sip from my wine and relax a little. "I like it, though. It's a much more intimate environment. I find it hard to teach dance to a large group."

"You were a dancer yourself, then?" he asks.

"For a time, yes," I say honestly. "After a while, though, I felt that teaching was more my calling. I was still able to dance, too, which was great."

"It sounds very rewarding," he replies with a hint of condescension that I try to ignore.

A few seconds after that, the same awkward waiter we had a few days ago comes to take our order. Raphael lets me go first, always the gentleman, and then the waiter disappears with our menus. I think I can still hear his teeth chattering, and I have a feeling that Raphael can do. The self-satisfied smirk tells me that he knows exactly the effect he's having on the boy. It wouldn't be a leap to think he has it on a handful of other people as well. I hate that he seems so contented by the fact—just another shred of proof that he's a sociopath. If I hadn't been convinced before, I certainly am now.

"What's on your mind?" he asks me and I don't blink.

"Oh, just you," I purr, keeping my eyes narrowed at him.

"I like the sound of that," he jokes, waving his hand at someone out of my field of vision for more wine.

Dinner comes and goes without incident, and our conversation carries on easily. There are moments when I feel like he can see right through my façade, but I shrug off the initial unease. He talks vaguely about his work with his brother—the family business, he calls it—and I nod my head, expertly pretending that I'm hanging on his every word. We discuss movies and books and music, much like any couple would in the beginning stages of getting to know one another. I make a few jokes and he laughs lightheartedly, leaving me to wonder if I missed my calling. Maybe I should have been an actress… I'm a scientist through-and-through, but this has to be the best performance of my career.

A small beep sounds from his pocket and he sends me an apologetic glance.

"Sorry about this," he says, pulling a small black cell phone into his hand. "It's probably my brother."

"Oh, please, go ahead," I say, waving my hand. "I hope it's not an emergency."

His eyes flit over the screen and he sighs, his jaw clenching a bit.

"Not an emergency, but I need to make a quick call," he replies. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not."

"You'll stick around, won't you, Cinderella?" he questions with a smirk.

"Afraid so," I say with a mock pout. "I forgot my glass slippers."

He throws a wink in my direction and then he's gone, headed to the back of the restaurant like he owns the place. The thought occurs to me that he might. I lean back and pick at the last of my food with a fork, even though I'm much too full to eat anything else. Seconds later my phone vibrates in my purse and I reach for it, wondering who would be trying to get a hold of me on my day off. My mouth curls into a smile when I realize that "MT" has sent me a text message.

_Nice dress._

I resist the urge to laugh but I quickly type back.

_You're supposed to be watching Raphael, _I reply with a smile easily present on my face_._

A few seconds pass while I attempt to look surreptitiously around the room and finding no one I recognize. I realize, of course, that I won't be able to find him. He's way better than I am at disappearing into a crowd.

_Two birds with one stone, _he replies. Seconds later, while I'm thinking of something to send back he texts, _Where is he?_

_You're slacking off. He had to take a phone call._

_How long ago?_

_I don't know. A few minutes now._

I sit there for a few more minutes and when Mac doesn't reply I get the feeling that something is going wrong. Attempts to convince myself otherwise don't go as planned and before too long I'm itching to get at whatever it is that's keeping everyone on their toes. Finally I give up and lay my napkin on the table as I leave my seat. A quick glance at the waiter tells me that he's not sure what to do, so I tell him that I've left my purse on the table and I need him to watch it for me. He stammers his assent and then I'm gone, following the path that Raphael did just a few minutes before.

I go through the kitchen and I'm greeted by rapid Italian phrases that I'm sure are various versions of, "You're not supposed to be in here." I nod, smile, and wave in an entirely vacant manner and before too long they've started to ignore me completely. Weaving my way around the cooks and stoves, I find a large wooden door that—I hope—leads to whatever room Raphael is occupying. It takes all my strength to push it open, and I can feel the cooks' eyes on me as I muscle my way through the door.

Instead of finding a conference room or storage shed, it's cool night air that greets me on the other side of the portal. An alleyway is what I walk into once leaving the restaurant, and voices drifting to me tell me that I'm close to my destination. I walk further down the alley, away from the street, and I hear the voices getting louder. Raphael's voice is easily recognizable, followed by a man's voice that sounds close to tears. As I get closer I can make out the words, and they're almost enough to send me running in the opposite direction.

"Please, Mr. Benevuto, I swear it was an accident," the man cries, his voice shaking. "It was just a scratch. I didn't think you'd notice it. I painted over it, see?"

"Oh, you painted over it?" Raphael asks, "You painted over it? With your wife's nail polish, you fucking moron. You didn't think I'd notice nail polish on a Mercedes Benz?"

"It was a mistake!"

"You're goddamn right it was," he says and I hear the unmistakable _click _of the slide pulling back on a pistol.

The adrenaline rushes into my system without a second thought and I'm charging forward, reaching for the weapon that's locked in a drawer in my apartment. Before I really know what I'm doing I pass a wall of crates and Raphael comes into sight, holding a small black handgun against the head of the man I heard crying earlier. He's small and round, even curled into a ball and begging for his life. His eyes are the first to find mine, and they've widened in shock. He silently begs me to save his life and I have to look away.

"Stella," Raphael says, obviously surprised although the gun in his hand never wavers its focus, "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you," I say sweetly, keeping my eyes on him instead of the man huddled before him. "I didn't know you had business."

"Yeah, business," he says, finally lowering his weapon and handing it to a tall man next to him. The other man—I recognize him from the pictures Mac has of the bodyguards—takes the weapon and tucks it away in his jacket, keeping his eyes safely away from me.

"I'm sorry it's taken me so long," he says, walking forward and reaching out. He cups my jaw in his hand and I try not to flinch. "I was just having a discussion with Myron here." He keeps his eyes on me as he calls back, "Right Myron?"

"Right, sir," he says shakily, watching the display before him.

"Myron is my driver," he explains as though it matters, "And he had a little incident on Houston. Instead of just telling me, he tried to hide it. Of course I noticed it, and now we're having a few words."

"Oh, I see," I reply, nodding. "Do I need to get out of your way? I mean, I can let you handle this and meet up with you later."

"Would you mind? Normally I would blow it off, but it took a bit of persuading to get him to meet me here," he explains. "We still have a few more words to exchange yet if Myron wants to get home to his family tonight."

"No, go ahead," I say, keeping my eyes trained on Raphael.

"You're such a sweet girl. I'll make it up to you, I swear."

"Of course," I say, nodding fervently. It was harder to be the devoted girlfriend than I thought when a potential murder victim is laying just a few feet from where I'm standing. Raphael is staring me down and I have to wonder if he can smell my fear or hear the pounding of my heart. I desperately hope he can't.

"Okay, gorgeous. You have a good night," he says and leans down, placing a chaste kiss on my lips. I feel a bitter taste start in the back of my mouth but I block it from my mind, focusing on the moment rather than my disgust.

"Goodnight," I whisper and turn away. I feel his eyes on me for a few moments and then his attention is firmly elsewhere.

I walk on a ghost's legs past the wall of crates, aiming for the giant wooden door that got me here. My steps are shaky but my head is held high. I know what I'm walking away from, and yet I'm doing nothing. It feels like a lead weight in my stomach until the idea occurs to me to get back to my phone and call Flack. Sending him into the alley will ensure both Myron's life as well as—potentially—Raphael's arrest. If we can get his fingerprints into the system, they'll come up for all thirteen cases and we'll have him. This thought in mind, my head turns up a little higher.

My hand is almost on the door handle when a single gunshot tears through the otherwise silent night. It takes maybe a second before my heart jumps in my chest and my fingers shake, thoughts racing in a million different directions and ending inevitably in the same place. A strangled sigh escapes my lips and the cop's instincts in my head are telling me to turn around and apprehend the culprit. I can't, though. I have neither a badge, nor a gun, nor my handcuffs. I'm outnumbered two to one. It would mean certain death, I know. For a moment my hand drifts to Mac's ring again, and I know that I can turn it and he would be there at a second's notice. The blue stone is smooth under my fingertips and before I can turn it I hear footsteps in the distance, coming closer at a furious pace. In a few seconds Flack comes into view.

He starts to speak but I shake my head. Understanding, his eyes move over me and he finds no injuries. I nod my head down the alley, and watch him take off. I don't intend to stick around and watch the aftermath… after this, the case against Raphael will be open-shut and airtight. Finding him with the gun and body doesn't leave much wiggle room. For right now, the only thing on my mind is going home.

Charging through the kitchen for the second time, there are no shouted orders for me to leave. I hear some murmurs, but everyone's eyes are on their work. Everyone seems to know what just transpired in the alleyway, and no one seems willing to step forward and make something of it. In all fairness, this is something I'll probably want to forget, too.

Something tells me I won't be able to.

-----

My apartment is dark and absolutely silent when I get home. I turn the lights on and I don't feel like anything's wrong in the world, because my couch and a glass of wine are waiting for me. My gun and badge are exactly where I left them, which puts most of my mind at ease. I move around quietly, kicking off my shoes and letting my poor feet rest on the chilled wood floor. The next stop is my refrigerator, where the bottle of chardonnay that Mac and I shared is sitting. Half a bottle is left over and I have no doubt in my mind that I'll have finished it by the end of the night.

I keep feeling like I should be more excited. The entire thing is over, done with. Raphael will be in custody soon, and we'll have thirteen fewer cases to worry about. God… thirteen. This man is responsible for so much carnage, and then it's over. It's too unbelievable for me to consider that he would go so easily, but I don't seem to have a choice. There's no way he would be able to trick Flack into believing that Myron fell onto a bullet or that he just happened to stumble by.

This is the thought that's playing over and over in my mind when my phone vibrates again. Assuming that it's Flack calling to tell me what I've already presumed, I let the wine glass rest on the coffee table and I grasp my phone.

"Hey, it's me," he says, irritation apparent in his voice. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good."

"What's wrong?" I ask. "Did Raphael make bail?"

"Make bail? Ha!" he scoffs loudly and suddenly it gets a little harder to swallow. "He hasn't been arraigned to even have a bail to make. Hell, I didn't even bring the bastard in."

"What?" I ask, sitting forward, "Why not?"

"There was nothing to bring him in for," he says, obviously astounded. "Mac called me after he talked to you, and we decided that he and I were covering different angles of the restaurant. Everything goes down according to plan, until Raphael gets up from the table and I watch you follow him a few minutes after that. I start getting this bad feeling, right? Like something's going wrong." He pauses, taking a long breath. "So I hear the gunshot from my car, and I lose my mind thinking something happened to you."

I want to tell him I'm sorry, but I know what little good the sentiment would do.

"I take off into the alley, you're fine, but when I find Benevuto he's leaning against the wall and having a smoke with a friend," he says. "No body, no blood. No gun, nothing."

"How is that possible?" I ask. "I was there just a few seconds before and some guy named Myron was begging for his life. It was barely two minutes after the gunshot before you showed up."

"I know," he replies, "Believe me, I know. I just couldn't prove anything otherwise."

"So, that's it?" I ask.

"That's it."

My hands are shaking as I disconnect the call a few seconds later, and I feel like all the blood has rushed from my face. What happened to the airtight case? Where did it go? My head is spinning at warp speeds, but no plausible explanation for a disappearing body comes to mind. The thought of seeing Raphael again after seeing firsthand what kind of monster he is makes me want to scream and cry, but those aren't the emotions bubbling up in me. The foremost one is fear. Is he going to come after me next? I'm a witness, after all. The thought has my hands shaking again and before I know it, my fingers are on my ring and the stone is twisting in my grasp.

When I'm done I stare at it, waiting for it to sound an alarm or turn red to show me that whatever devices Mac put into it are in working order. I wondered for a brief moment if it would self destruct, but that didn't happen either. I listen for the sound of a SWAT team arriving, but the only thing I hear is the vague murmur of movement in the apartment above mine. I've almost decided that the damn thing doesn't work before my door crashes in and I jump, startled.

Mac comes charging through the doorway, gun drawn, and his eyes scouring the room for whatever enemy he thinks is waiting for him. I can't seem to find my voice in lieu of all the drama, but I watch as he moves from room to room in search of someone to squeeze the trigger on. Finally, after he's proved to himself that the apartment is empty except for us, he walks around the side of the couch and sets the gun aside. His eyes roam over me before he pulls me off the couch, his hands moving over skin and cloth until he's certain that I'm not falling to pieces before his very eyes.

"What is it?" he asks, not meeting my eyes, "What's wrong?"

"They didn't get him, Mac," I say quietly because they're the only words that seem capable of forming themselves on my tongue, "He killed that man fifty feet from where I was standing, and they didn't get him."

His hands pause in their task and finally his stern blue eyes soften as they meet mine. I'm sure he can read me like a book, and it's a foreign feeling for someone who's always considered herself mysterious. He grips my arms for a moment and then pulls me close, resting my cheek against his chest and his chin against the top of my head. There are very few people who can get away with this kind of contact, but instead of bristling and turning away I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his waist. The remorse is pouring off of me in waves and before I know it I'm rambling into his chest.

"It was his car!" I exclaim, stunned. "The man scratched his car and tried to fix it with nail polish. I mean, he killed him like it was nothing! Like he meant nothing! How could he kill over something so small?"

"He's a sociopath," Mac offers simply and I give a harsh laugh.

"That's the easy answer," I say, pulling away from our embrace to look him in the eye. "He's evil, Mac. That's all it could be."

He brushes hair out of my face and nods, studying me.

"You're done."

"What?" I ask, blinking at the phrase. "What do you mean?"

"You're done," he repeats. "You're not seeing him again. We'll find some other way to catch him, but no more of this undercover stuff. It's too risky."

"No, we can do this," I say adamantly despite knowing that I could very easily be wrong. "It's just going to take more work. We'll do more surveillance! We'll follow him!" Mac just stares at me, and I don't think any of my arguments are working. "We can't just give up," I plead. "Not yet. Not so soon."

"It's not worth it," he says, "Not like this."

"Like what?"

"Like _this_," he says, "Look what it's doing to you."

"I'm a big girl, Mac," I say defiantly, pulling away from him completely and reaching for my wine, "This isn't my first encounter with a serial killer. I can handle it."

"I never said you couldn't," he says calmly, his eyes never leaving me.

"Yeah, well, that's what it sounded like. I don't need to be coddled," I seethe, taking a long pull from my wine glass and letting the burn work its way down my throat. "I made the decision to take this on, and I'm not going to just give it up without a fight. How can I?"

"It's not giving up," he says earnestly, "Knowing which battles to fight means that you're smart, not that you're weak."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't feel like it," I say and set the glass down with a heavy _thud_. "And what about the man Raphael killed tonight? Don't you think he deserves to have someone care about his death? To give a damn about the fact that he died fifty feet away from a police officer who could have saved his life if she'd acted a couple of minutes before? What about his family? Are they going to care that it risked too much for me to save me? I should care. _Don't they deserve that much?!_"

As much as I would have liked it, my shouting doesn't take away from the fact that tears are steadily building behind my eyes. Guilt like a tidal wave is building at a furious pace that I don't think I'll be able to hold off for much longer, and looking at the floor isn't making it go away. I hear my own erratic breathing and Mac's slow, calm breaths. They're the only sound in the room, and my misery is only heightened by the fact that we both know I'm right.

"I'm sorry I turned the ring," I say softly, "I was curious to see if it worked. Goodnight."

I've turned away completely before Mac's voice reaches me.

"You're not to blame, Stella," he says and his voice is steadier than I would have thought possible under the circumstances. "I know it feels that way, but you're not."

"How do you know what it feels like?" I respond shakily. "I let someone die. I did nothing to help him."

Silence stretches on between us, heavy and undisturbed. When I think he's let the matter rest his voice cuts into the stillness, taut with an emotion that I don't dare question.

"I was supposed to go meet Nate the night he died."

The statement is simple, but holds all the potential of a loaded weapon. I say nothing, but I look up at him. His mouth has pressed into a fine line and his hands are in his pockets. His stance is tense and unyielding, and it's the misery mirrored in his eyes that tells me it's the absolute truth that's come out of his mouth.

"He had to go meet someone but he wouldn't say who," he starts and I stay still, waiting to hear more, "He begged me to come with him. After a while I agreed, but halfway there I got caught in traffic. I was cursing at the guy in front of me and playing with the radio when Nate was dying on a street corner. Alone."

"Oh, Mac," I sigh, feeling all my misery and blame slide off my shoulders, "I'm so sorry."

"I keep telling myself it's not my fault."

"It's not," I say, crossing the space between us in a few steps. I grab his shoulders and he stares, waiting to see what else I have to say. "It is absolutely not your fault. It's Raphael's fault that Nate is dead." I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn't believe me yet, but I don't know how to convince him. "I hate Raphael for doing this to you. To all his victims."

"It's not your fault either," he says quietly, reaching for my waist and pulling me close. "Raphael would have killed him whether you were there or not. Stepping in would have only gotten you both killed."

"I know," I say, nodding my head. "It just doesn't feel like it right now."

"Give it time."

"Thank you, Mac," I say. "I might have stayed here and felt sorry for myself all night if you hadn't come along."

"Always happy to help," he says, close enough now that his breath whispers across my lips. I involuntarily shiver as his hands move upward from my sides, the calluses on his hands glancing across the bare skin at my back. His fingers play along my spine and I unconsciously arch against him, my breath catching almost painfully in my chest. My eyes focus on his chin and then his lips, barely daring to keep up their journey to the eyes that I know are waiting for me.

All it takes is one look, one quick glance, and then we're both gone. We come together in a heated tangle of lips and tongue and teeth, vying for dominance in a battle that we're both quite content to lose. His palms press me tight against him and I cling to his shirt, neither of us parting for wasted breaths. Before I know quite what I'm doing, my fingers are pushing the dark leather jacket from his shoulders and it falls to the ground without a second thought. His lips leave mine for the barest instant and then I feel them again as the move from the corner of my mouth to my cheek. He continues along the line of my jaw and I close my eyes, every nerve in my body humming, electric in anticipation.

By the time he reaches my neck, I'm a goner. My frantic hands are grasping at the hem of his t-shirt and trying to yank it over his head, unable to get it any farther than his chest because his arms are still firmly positioned on my back.

I keep waiting for a knock at my door, a cell phone to ring, but it doesn't happen. For once, it seems, the universe is working in my favor.

I finally pull his shirt off—with little or no help from him—and my hands eagerly trace the hard muscle surrounded by smooth skin that heats at my touch. The small dip at his sternum catches my attention and I kiss him there, delighting at the tightening of the muscles in his arms when I touch him. I kiss him again, just a little lower, and before I continue my exploration he runs his fingers through my hair and along my scalp, pulling me up to meet his desperate lips. The kiss is hurried and fierce, and there's no doubt in either of our minds where this is going. Before I lose myself completely, he pulls away.

"You're sure?" he asks, breathless, and I can tell that even those words were labored. All I can do is nod my head, which is answer enough for the both of us.

Before I can retaliate he's swept my feet out from under me and I'm clinging to him as he carries me out of the living room. I feel his heart hammering in his chest and I know mine is racing to match as I kiss him again, pouring every ounce of passion I feel for this man into it. A slow, steady groan works its way up his throat and his body rumbles a bit in its wake, sending heat swiftly to the bottom of my stomach. I'm unable to pull away from him and for a moment I'm afraid that we'll walk into a wall, but Mac moves as though he knows exactly where he's going. I'm grateful, because that means I can focus entirely on him.

In what feels like barely more than a heartbeat we've cross the threshold into my bedroom. I take a moment to consider what that means, and then I decide that I don't care. I trust Mac with this, and the look in his eyes tells me that my trust isn't misplaced. He kisses me once more, slow and sweet and careful, until there's no question in my mind that what I'm doing is right.

A second later, he shuts the door behind us.

**A/N: I loved writing that. lol ;)**


	21. The Game of Risk

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks to all of you for your marvelous reviews! I finished this chapter extremely quick because I was so happy to hear from all of you again after such a long absence. (Entirely my fault.) lol In any case, here it is. =)**

**There's a bit of language in this one. Stella was feeling feisty yesterday. lol**

**Chapter Twenty-One**

"**The Game of Risk"**

For the one of the first nights in a long time, my sleep is entirely undisturbed. I still wake up early—old habits die hard—but when I do, my mind is clear and my body is rested.

I hear Stella breathing next to me and feel her hand on my chest, her fingers situated just above my heart. Despite the fact that I can see her even in the dim light of dawn, my mind reels at the possibility that she could actually be here. It feels surreal, like a great dream that you know can't last. And yet she's here, curled against me. All it would take is one second, one solitary moment to reach out and touch her, to run my fingers through her curls. I could, but I'm afraid that the spell would break and I would wake up on the floor, miles away. The risk is more than I can take, so I stay exactly where I am.

A few minutes later she stirs and frowns in her sleep, the corners of her lips pull gracefully down and her brow furrows. She mutters something sleepily, but I can't understand the words. She seems restless, shifting against me. It doesn't take me long to figure out what would weigh so heavily on her mind, and that's when I out to touch her. My thumb brushes over her cheek and then the frown is gone. Her face is smooth and unlined, her even breathing evidence of untroubled sleep. I press a kiss into her hair and then look out the window, where night is quickly giving way to the new morning.

It's a clever trick that the heart can play on the mind. Holding Stella close, I could swear that she's been there forever. _Hell, _I think offhandedly. _Maybe she should be. _I don't so much as pause when the words flash themselves across my mind. It's not the strangest thought I've ever had, not that I would ever utter it aloud. Thoughts like that are far less dangerous before you share them.

Normally I would banish the idea from my head, focusing on something else to take my mind off the fact that I'm falling for her. Given enough time, I could convince myself that it wasn't real. I have an iron will and self-control to match, but I've finally met my match. Recently nothing in my life has been normal, my emotions included. A few weeks ago I might never have believed someone who told me I'd be here now. Life, it seems, always goes out of its way to prove you wrong. In that sense, I'm just another product of fate. I set out to get rid of a murderer, and I found a lover.

Soon after that thought, it's Raphael that occupies my mind. The fact that he can so flawlessly pull off an impromptu murder scares the hell out of me, and the thought has me unconsciously holding Stella a little tighter. She was right there when it happened, just a few feet away. Ignoring the steady quickening of my heartbeat, I consider what would have happened if she'd shown up just a few minutes later. My panic is quickly shoved aside as I touch her, reminding myself that she's fine. Anger is quick to rise up next, and anger is something that I can work with.

There has to be something I can do, I think while staring at the ceiling. Flack would have gone over the scene with a dozen other officers, I know, but something isn't right about the entire thing. If Raphael knew he would have been committing murder, why would he have let Stella just walk off? How could he have gotten rid of the body so quickly? There's something big missing here. I don't know what it is yet, but if there's anything I know it's that nothing is exactly what it seems. My best bet at figuring out exactly what Raphael is doing is going to the scene of the crime—literally.

Deciding on a plan of action, I steal one final glance at Stella before inching away from her. I replace my body with a pillow and she wraps her arms around it instead, frowning again at the disturbance. I allow myself a wry smile and then turn away, searching for the clothing that had been so hurriedly thrown away last night. I dress quickly and move to leave the bedroom, headed for the kitchen.

I make a quick cup of coffee for myself and make the rest of the pot for Stella, knowing how much she loves caffeine first thing in the morning. It's not enough, though, and so I grab the small notepad off the front of her refrigerator and a pen. I lean against the counter and try to think of what to write. No words are coming and I'm not really surprised—words have never been my strongpoint. I consider just leaving the coffee for her as testimony enough, but my stomach does a weird flip that feels suspiciously like guilt. I know it's not enough.

I go through at least three sheets of paper, crumbling them all up and throwing them away in distaste. Every draft of my short message is terrible and doesn't say what I want it to. I'm close to throwing the notepad out the window completely when I decide that less is more. I scribble a few words and leave it standing in front of the coffee pot, where I know she'll find it within seconds of waking up for the day. When it comes to detecting the presence of coffee, Stella's talent rivals that of a bloodhound.

Grabbing my gun and heading for the door, my stomach flips again. I need to get to the crime scene before people start paying attention to it but I stop, suddenly finding myself unable to go. I know what's keeping me, and so I make a side trip to the door to the bedroom where I just spent the night. Stella is still sleeping soundly, curled against a pillow where my body was just a few moments before. Her breathing is deep and even, and her face is calm. I can leave now and not disturb her.

But I can't just sneak out.

Stella deserves more, especially from me. Unsure whether or not I will end up regretting my actions, I walk back to the side of the bed and sit down. It takes just a minute but she stirs and her eyes flicker open, unfocused, before settling on my face. Scowling, she rubs her eyes with the heel her of her hand and squints at the clock.

"Mac?"

"Yeah, it's me," I say, running a hand over her arm. I resist the need to smile, tucking the image of her sleepy gaze away in my memory.

"What time is it?" she asks, looking around for sunlight only to find that it won't be arriving for another hour or so.

"It's early still," I reply and she sinks back down onto the pillow. A second later her head picks up again and she studies me, noticing that I'm the only one dressed.

"You're leaving?" she asks me, her fiery green eyes straining to see me in the darkness. She sits up, letting the blanket fall from her shoulders, and I have the momentary thought of going back to bed. Stella makes it all too easy for me to shuck responsibility in her favor, but she's the reason I need to leave. The sooner I can get Raphael out of the way, the sooner I can be confident in the knowledge that she's safe.

"I want to get down to the restaurant before the rest of the world wakes up," I tell her. "Flack probably scoured the alley last night, but I want to see it with my own eyes. If there's something there, I'll find it."

"Do you need me to go, too?" she asks. "I can take a shower and be ready to go in ten minutes." She pauses, thinking. "Okay, maybe twenty."

"No, stay here. Get some more sleep," I say. "I can handle this one."

"I can help," she says adamantly. "If there's something there, I want to find it. There's no way Raphael's gotten away with murdering Myron scot-free."

"Myron?" I ask, confused and Stella nods.

"That was his name," she says. "I didn't hear his last name. Maybe I could ask around the restaurant and find out. They might be a little more eager if Raphael isn't in the building."

"But if he comes back and finds you there we'll be in a world of trouble," I remind her. "You're safer here. If I find something you'll be the first to know, I promise."

"Good point," she says, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. "Okay, I'll stay here. Just, you know, be careful."

"Yes, ma'am," I say and give a mock salute. I'm rewarded with a dazzling smile that has me smiling in return. Unable to stop myself, I lean forward and capture her lips with mine. Her breath catches for an instant and then her hands rest on either side of my face, pulling me closer.

Before I can reach the place of no return I pull away, admiring the faint flush of her cheeks and her heavy eyelids. It strikes me again just how beautiful she is, but I can't let that distract me. There will be plenty of time for that later, after Raphael's been dealt with. Stella knows it, too, because she gives me another smile and nods her head.

"Go on, get out of here," she says with a hint of laughter in her voice. "Call me if you find something."

Another kiss and I'm gone, smiling uncontrollably.

The alley next to La Notte Stellata is cleaner than most, but this isn't a chore that I'm looking forward to. The sun will be up in a matter of minutes, and that's all the time I have to spare. Flack told me last night that he found Raphael and one of his bodyguards near the end of the alleyway, and that's where I'm headed. I have to bypass an entire wall of crates to get there, but it creates a tiny alcove where it would be easy to conduct illegal business without being disturbed. It's here that I'm sure Raphael handles most of his activities, illegal or not. Serial killers are highly territorial, and it wouldn't surprise me if this place were Raphael's ground zero.

A quick look at the alcove turns up nothing suspicious, but I'm not really surprised. If there had been anything obvious to find, Flack would have done it hours ago. The end of the alley is blocked off by a tall, rotting wood fence. It would have been relatively easy to break through, but there would be evidence of trauma left over. Once again, Flack would have been quick to notice. Since the space is almost empty once you get past the bigger end of the alley, there's not many places left for me to search. I turn some old boxes over, but the only evidence I find is that of infestation—rats scurry off in every direction and I try not to grimace.

I work my way down the length of the alcove, being as diligent as time allows. So far I have nothing to show for my efforts, which isn't surprising but doesn't inspire excitement, either. The last box I turn over holds what must be an entire nest of rodents, and I barely hide my disgust as they run away from the giant that's disturbed their home. Before I turn away and give the attempt up for lost, a glint of gold catches my eye and I stop in my tracks. Nudging the last of the rats away with the toe of my shoe, I squat down to take a closer look.

The casing is small, no more than an inch long, and could have very easily come from the gun Raphael had last night. Pulling my shirtsleeve over my hand I pick it up; it's cool to the touch. There's no way to be exact, but it could have been fired last night. I look around but there's no corresponding bullet hole in the boxes or in the wall where the slug might have been embedded after passing through the man's body. The thing that confuses me the most is the lack of any DNA evidence. If a man had been killed in this alleyway, there would be some evidence of blood: spatter, pooling, anything of the like. Considering the murder weapon, there should have been at least some high-velocity spatter. But, scouring my eyes over the scene for the millionth time this morning, there's nothing to be found.

I pocket the casing with the intention of handing it over to Stella for her team to analyze. By the end of the day she'll be able to tell me everything we need to know about it, and if we're lucky it will give her enough probable cause for a search warrant. I stand up straighter and wince at the sight of a massive rat scratching at the side of my shoe. I shake my foot a bit and it doesn't budge, going immediately back to its task.

"You've got some balls, don't you?" I ask, staring down at the mangy rodent. "I was trying to be nice, but if you're going to be difficult…"

I sweep my foot to the side with a firm kick and the rat goes flying, landing with a solid _thud _against the fence. The rat scurries off, unscathed, passing me completely. The wood, though, creaks and I could have sworn I saw it sway. It was a trick of the light. Wasn't it? I take a few steps forward and touch the fence. It feels solid enough, but I give it one good shove and it buckles under the pressure, a few square feet swinging open like a gate.

I stare, frozen, at the enclosure exposed by the makeshift door. It's just big enough for an adult male to climb though, and that's exactly what I do. Not thinking what could be waiting for me on the other side, I step through and find that there's just enough room for a car to drive comfortable in and out. It takes me a moment, but I notice the man staring at me from just a few feet ahead. He's hidden partly by shadow, but after a while it's no secret that he's standing there.

"What are you doing here?" he squeaks, stepping out of shadow to show me his face. His curly red hair is balding near the top, and his face is shiny and red; he's Santa Claus, before his hair lost its color.

"Raphael sent me," I lie smoothly, keeping my eyes trained on him. I don't falter for a moment, but something tells me this man wouldn't call my bluff.

"Oh, okay," he says nervously, nodding his head as though my answer had been the most obvious in the world. "I'm just here looking for my phone. It dropped out of my pocket last night sometime, I think."

"What were you doing here last night?" I ask, standing aside while he continues his search.

"Oh, Mr. Benevuto had me do a favor for him," he said and his voice holds the glow of a man who both admires and fears his employer. "It was pretty simple. Like acting, really. He told me I was really good."

Acting?

"You're not Myron, are you?" I ask and my answer is the resulting grin that spreads over his doughy face. "I thought Raphael had you taken care of, so to speak."

"Oh, no, of course not," he says indignantly. "I'm the best driver Mr. Benevuto ever had, he tells me so. He just wanted to show off for his new girlfriend, that's all. It was kind of fun, you know? Like playing pretend only, you know, as adults."

"Okay, I gotcha. Raphael was talking about you the other day, actually," I say casually, hiding the fact that my mind is speeding in a hundred different directions. "What did you have to do?"

"He talked about me?" he asks and then grins at my nod. "Well, that's something. I'm glad to know he appreciates me and all." He looks back at me and sees my questioning glance, which shocks him back onto the previous topic. "Oh! What did I have to do? I just had to hang out here for a few minutes, on my hands and knees. When I heard the door open, I had to pretend like Mr. Benevuto wanted to kill me. Like, crying and screaming and begging. That kind of thing."

"And then as soon as the girl came Mr. Benevuto was going to pretend to show mercy on me, and then when she left he would pretend to shoot me," he beamed at this detail, apparently fascinated by the fact that he was a central part of an elaborate production. "The gun was full of blanks, you see? They weren't real bullets! And when the cops came, I had to leave through that door so it would look like they'd already hidden the body."

Ignoring the angry flush creeping into my face, I force a harsh laugh.

"Those cops must be losing it," I say, actually thinking of Stella's tears over a man she thought had lost his life. "That Raphael's a clever bastard."

"Isn't he?" Myron sighs and then shakes his head. "Anyway, I'm looking for my phone. Are you busy?"

"Me?" I ask and shake my head. "Nah, not for a while."

"Would you mind helping me look?"

"Not at all," I say and wonder how much more information I could get out of the man by the time we find his phone.

-----

I don't know how much time has passed when my eyes open and stay that way. The abundance of sunlight in my bedroom tells me that it's been at least a couple of hours, and the guilt of oversleeping is entirely overridden by the memory that today is my day off; my second and last, as is custom. It takes me a moment to remember that Mac has already left, but the mild feeling of disappointment evaporates completely when the smell of coffee drifts in on a breeze. I sit straight up in bed, pushing the disaster area that is my hair out of my face. _Definitely coffee_, I think and climb out of bed.

I shrug into a robe and venture out into my apartment, following the scent. My exploration leads me to my coffee pot, where a mug and a note are beside an entire pot of coffee are waiting for me. I smile to myself and find myself torn on what to pick up first, the caffeine or the note. I settle for a compromise, holding my cup in one hand and the small piece of paper in the other. The note is simple and concise, and the handwriting is unmistakable. There are only three words, and it's all I need to hear to keep me smiling throughout the rest of the day.

_Thinking of you._

They're probably not the most important three words in the world, but they make me feel wanted all the same. I set the note aside, where I can look at it later if I want. And I will, of that I have no doubt.

I'm only five minutes into my coffee when my phone rings. Debating to myself where I left it last night, I find it on the coffee table. The caller ID tells me that it's Mac calling, and I open the phone with a smile before considering that he might be calling because he found something worth mentioning. When I answer the phone my voice is unintentionally tense.

"What did you find?" I ask tersely.

"What, no foreplay?" he asks and I hear the grin in his voice.

"Not until you're here to do something about it," I respond and he laughs. The sound has me smiling, but I haven't forgotten the reason for the call. I hear the dull roar of traffic in the background, telling me that he's outside on the street.

"Fair enough," he says and clears his throat. "I found something in the alley, but I don't know if it's good or bad news."

"What is it?"

"Well, I found a casing," he says, "And then I found Myron."

"Oh, my God," I say, my hand going to my mouth. "You found his body?"

"Something like that," he replies. "He's alive, Stella."

"So, you took him to the hospital?"

"No, he's fine," Mac tells me. "It was all a set up, Stella. Raphael staged the whole thing."

"What?" I ask incredulously. "What the hell do you mean?"

"I found a trap door, so to speak," he says, "And Myron was behind it, looking for his cell phone. He told me everything."

"Why would he set something like that up?" I ask and my voice is starting to get the distinct strain of temper. "What the _hell _could possess this man to play with me like that? That is _sick_!"

"He wasn't messing with you, he was trying to impress you," he says. "Myron said he did it to show off to his new girlfriend."

"That rat bastard son of a _bitch_!" I cry. "I actually mourn for this guy, I feel guilty that I couldn't do anything to save him, and he's _fine_?!"

"Maybe I should come over," he says and sounds uneasy. "In case you strangle an innocent passer-by. I might need to bail you out."

"Bring me that casing," I seethe. "I swear to God, if there's so much a smudge on that thing I'm going to see him hanged for it."

I shut the phone with a _snap _and then throw it against the wall, delighting in the crash and sound of the various parts hitting the floor. I'll have to put it all together later, of course, but right then it was the outlet I needed for the rage that was building so steadily inside of me. It sickens me that I was toyed with as though my concern for human life was some quirk that he could squeeze a laugh out of. I stare down at the pieces of my phone, swearing an oath in my head that before I'm done with Raphael his life would be fractured in exactly the same way.

-----

Two hours later I'm at the lab, studying the casing under a microscope. I have the lab entirely to myself, by some serendipitous turn of events. Sid is in the morgue, Adam has the day off, and everyone else is in the field. Various lab technicians are still around, but they wouldn't feel comfortable questioning their boss on what she's doing in the lab on her day off. Sometimes, every now and then, I really like the advantages of having seniority in the workplace. It's not often I get to pull rank.

Under my microscope, the world isn't nearly so convenient.

There are, in fact, fingerprints on the shell casing Mac found in the alley. From what I understand, he found them just a few feet from where we would have been standing the night before. The prints I managed to pull are only smudges, though, which is more than a little discouraging. I could, theoretically, run them through the database but I would come up with thousands of thousands of matches. Something with only two or three references points wouldn't be worth a damn thing in court, even if I already know whose prints they are.

Just before I'm able to unplug the microscope and throw it across the room like I had my phone, a familiar voice calls to me from the doorway.

"You look out of sorts, Stella," Sid tells me in his strange, lilting voice. The sound is, somehow, comforting and disturbing all at once. "Is there something wrong?" All I can do is grunt and he laughs a bit before narrowing his eyes at me. "If I'm not mistaken, this is your day off. What are you doing here?"

"Chasing a ghost, apparently," I mutter and he sighs.

"Another of those cases, I see," he observes and I nod. "You'll work yourself to death, Detective. Go home, have some wine. Enjoy your day off."

"Easier said than done, Doc," I sigh. I survey the casing again and then the room around us. We're alone, and I have a thought that appeals to me. "Can I ask you a question, Sid? Hypothetical, of course."

"Of course," he says but his eyes catch my meaning.

"This friend of mine is doing some investigating on her own," I start, and check to see if Sid is following me. He nods his head a little, his gray hair flopping into his eyes only to be pushed away. Lowering my voice a little, I continue, "It started out being on the record and entirely sanctioned, and then it turned into… something else. Now she's taking risks that she shouldn't be taking. I've gone undercover."

"You mean your friend," he corrects and I blush a little.

"Yeah, I mean my friend," I wince and I catch the amused smile on Sid's face. "Anyway, she's starting to wonder if she's getting into something she won't be able to get out of. She could lose her job, and possibly get herself killed."

"You know as well as I do, Stella, that the risks of any action are only worth the benefits that could conceivably be accrued," he says gently. "What does your friend stand to gain from all this investigating and undercover work?"

"Someone very, very dangerous will be off the streets," I reply. "Over a dozen cases will be closed, and several families will have a chance at closure."

"That's a lot of lives hanging in the balance," he comments, obviously deep in thought. "It's very important, then, what your friend is doing."

"Very."

"Then she has to make a very important decision, it seems," he says. "She can ensure her own life and career and let the perpetrator go free, or she can take a chance and hope that it works out in her favor. Either way, the chances that everything will end in disaster are great."

"Yeah, she's been thinking the same thing," I say, chewing in my lower lip.

"Your friend is a good person, Stella," he says with a calm smile. "Thinking of others first should never be considered a negative trait."

"Yeah, well, sometime it doesn't feel like it," I reply with a wry smile. "Thank you for your time, Sid. I'll be sure to tell her that I got advice from the best possible source."

"I'm always here, you know," he reminds me and pats my shoulder. I stare after him and he walks through the door and then he's gone, off to the morgue to give the newly dead their final doctor's appointment. I sit, thinking, for some time after he's disappeared from sight. For some reason, my talks with Sid always get my brain moving again. It probably has something to do with the fact that he's one of the most interesting people I've ever met.

Finally, I know what I have to do. I take my bruised and battered phone from my pocket and dial the desired number, listening to it ring for maybe five seconds before I hear Mac's voice on the other end of the line.

"Mac? It's me," I say and grit my teeth. "Meet me back at my apartment. We're going go ambush the son of a bitch."


	22. Thinking of You

**Author's Note:**

**Sorry again for the long wait. I've had an unbelievable amount of homework to do lately, as well as work, so I've been very much wrapped up in that. Writer's block has been at me again, as well. Luckily, I've been able to banish it long enough to post this for you. =)**

**I owe Lily twice as many thanks this time around, seeing as how I forgot last time. She's very much the only reason this chapter happened at all. Your reviews, of course, give me motivation to keep going. Thanks so much to all of you who have stuck with me this long.**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"**Thinking of You"**

Another few days pass in a flurry of commotion and I hardly have time to breathe. I've taken a vacation from the lab—leaving Danny in charge—and I've informed Flack that for the time being, my attention is focused solely on Raphael. I've gotten concerned calls from everyone in the lab but Sid, and that's because I'm pretty sure he knows what I'm doing. I've been quick to tell everyone that I'm fine, and that I just wanted to take my vacation a little early this year. Adam may have been the only one to believe me, but I gave the story anyway. Flack isn't thrilled with me, but I never expected him to be. We both know he'll be there to back me up if I ask, and that's what really matters.

Almost every night Mac and I have stayed up late, planning. None of our plans are set in stone quite yet, but we're getting there. We know that we can't keep playing this game forever—we both have lives to get back to eventually. For the moment, both our lives are on hold. We've isolated ourselves almost completely in that respect. We have our links to the outside world—Flack for me, and Colonel Brand for him—and we have each other.

I've had a few dates with Raphael since the night he pretended to kill Myron. They've all been very casual, like getting coffee or grabbing lunch. At first it was hard to see him through the rage left over from his entire theater production, but after that it got easier. He never asked me about what I heard that night, or anything else associated with the matter. It was as if it never happened, which unnerved me. It helped a lot that when I came home every night Mac would be waiting on me, ready to hear whatever it was I had to tell him. More often than not I would just be ranting at nothing, getting all my hate expelled so that the next time I saw Raphael I could do so with a straight face. Once he cooked me dinner, and he's not a bad chef for someone who's spent the majority of his life in the military.

More often that not he spends the night, and it's something I don't dare take for granted. I've forgotten how relaxing it is to wake up to someone you trust. It's been a long time since I've had the experience. Most of the time I walk around feeling broken; because of that I feel like damaged goods. With Mac, though, I've never felt so held together in my life. I'm almost afraid to get used to it, because it could be gone in the blink of an eye. It's this small thing that keeps me from opening up to him completely. Ours isn't the everyday relationship of a normal man and woman. What we share is born out of dire circumstances, and I'm afraid to wake up and find that it's disappeared.

I think he knows I'm holding something back. I can see it in the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention, like now. It's early evening and I have a big date planned with Raphael—formal wear is required. The sun is setting and in a few hours the city lights will come alive, blocking the stars from view. I'm sitting in front of a mirror, doing my makeup. Mac is leaning in the doorway, watching me. His face shows all the indications of a man deep in thought, and I'm pretty sure we're thinking the same thing. Neither of us will say it, but we both know.

Raphael has a flair for the dramatic, and now I'm being told to dress up.

"Wear something nice, Cinderella," he'd crooned yesterday evening, running his thumb over my lips. "I've got the night of a lifetime planned for you."

Brushing blush over my cheeks, I feel a little like a sacrificial lamb being led to the slaughter. My dress is hanging in a garment back on the door of my closet, waiting to be stepped into. I have a pair of heels picked out specifically for the occasion, and a million pins have been set aside to keep my hair in check. It's probably going to take me the better part of two hours to finish getting ready, and by that time it will be time to go. I want to prolong the wait forever, but I can't. I'm trying not to be scared, but the wrinkle in Mac's forehead is making it hard. I can see him trying to be strong for me, and I wish he'd stop. If ever there was a time to sink or swim, it's now.

Trying to distract myself, I scan my eyes over the makeup that's scattered in front of me. I take my time picking the exact shades that I want, making sure I blend them perfectly with my skin. This isn't normally something I spend time doing; no one is really paying attention to your mascara at a crime scene. I suppose most women enjoy it, but I really can't under the circumstances. I go the extra mile to make my eyes dramatic; the colors I choose are bold and I turn my eyes smoky with some well-placed eyeliner and a couple of brushes of mascara. When I'm done the green in my eyes glows and my skin shimmers with highlights of gold.

While I'm admiring my artistry Mac leaves his spot at the door, moving to stand next to me. His face is bathed in the dying sunlight and I can tell he's worried. Before I have the chance to tell him that he's worrying for nothing he grabs my face in his hands and kisses me. His lips are rough and demanding against mine, persuading me without words to throw my cautions to the wind. He's passionate enough to steal my breath, and I can't help but wonder if he's kissing me like this because he thinks it will be our last chance to do so. When he pulls away, it feels as though a part of me has gone with him. Somehow, I'm more scared after the kiss than I was before.

"I wanted to get that out of my system before you put on your lipstick," he says simply and leaves the room. I stare after him, pressing my fingers against my lips. He's still there, I realize. He's left a part of himself behind, too.

My hands shake a little as I put on my lipstick. I have to steady them to keep the color inside the desired lines, and all I want to do is scream. The tension building up to tonight has been almost more than I can bear. Mac is solemn and concerned, and Raphael is preening and getting ready for his grand performance. I feel like a marionette with two different masters, and I've never been the type to let anyone pull my strings. Steeling myself, I set the tube of lipstick aside and walk into the bathroom.

Pulling my hair into a style that can be considered fashionable is a task that one should never handle alone. Normally if I have to have serious work done I go to a salon and let a professional mess with it. Tonight, though, I don't have the luxury. Tonight it's me, a can of hairspray, and a mirror that's left to battle the riot of curls that holds my head hostage. The challenge isn't one to be taken lightly, and I don't intend to make that mistake. It's all or nothing in this particular showdown; a duel to the death that I have no intention of losing.

An hour later, I am the victor. I've wrangled my mass of hair into a twist that fountains off at the top, held down by a series of jeweled clips. A few tendrils have been spared, choosing to frame my face rather than conform to the rest of the style. I've shown no mercy, and I've been rewarded for my efforts. Brushing my hair out will be another matter completely, but I'll worry about that later.

The next step in my transformation is my dress, and I step quickly outside to get it off its hanger. I relieve myself of the sweatpants I've been in all day and then take the dress out of its bag. I spread it across the counter and then strip the rest of the way down, reaching for the dress only when I'm actually ready to put it on. Spreading the skirt out on the tile floor, I open the top and step into it. I carefully pull it up my body, sucking in a little as the delicate fabricate strains over my hips. I make sure everything is in its right place and then reach for the zipper under my left arm, pulling it up and sealing myself into the dress.

It's long, emerald green, and it's never been worn. It's something I bought ages ago under the heading of "just in case." The bodice is form-fitting, giving my breasts just enough lift to be considered sexy but concealing enough to be considered demure. Small cap sleeves accentuate my neck and collarbones, making the overall look nothing short of elegant. I put on a pair of diamond stud earrings and a diamond pendant, polishing the look. Mac's ring is situated on the third finger of my right hand. I smile at the woman in the mirror and she smiles back.

I can tell neither of us means it.

When I walk out of the bathroom Mac is waiting on me, leaning against one wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He's changed, as well. His jeans and sweater have been replaced with black slacks and a black button-up shirt that brings out his blue eyes. His sleeves have been pushed up to his elbows, revealing tanned and muscular forearms. A cell phone is clipped to his belt, and the brown leather straps that surround his shoulders lead to a holster that holds his weapon. I can only hope he wears a jacket to cover it up. I don't know where he'll be all night—hell, I don't know where _I'll _be all night—but he's dressed to blend in with the crowd. I'm sure Flack's in on this operation as well, probably preferring to keep an eye on things outside while Mac gets to play dress-up.

"You look sharp, Taylor," I say playfully, flashing him a smile. "Us girls don't stand a chance."

"You're not so bad yourself, Bonasera," he says with a smile that's gone as quickly as it came. He walks over to me and pulls a key out of his pocket, dropping it into my hand when I reach for it. "This is the key to my apartment. This is where I want you to go after the night is over, just in case someone is watching you. I'll call and give you the okay once I'm sure it's safe."

"Your apartment?" I ask and it takes me a moment for my memory to drift back to the apartment that Danny and I searched all that time ago. "I haven't even thought of that place in weeks. Why there?"

"It's an address they can't trace back to your real name," he says. "I'll be close by all night. Flack will have eyes on you, too. If something feels off, anything at all, use your ring and I'll get you out of there."

"Easy enough to remember, I guess," I laugh awkwardly, nodding my head. "I'm going to feel like an idiot if it turns out that tonight was nothing to be worried about. I've got myself so worked up that it feels like I'll jump at my own shadow."

"There's nothing to be afraid of," he tells me earnestly and I want so much to believe him. "Flack and I are both watching out for you. If Raphael makes one wrong move we'll have him."

"Yeah, I know," I say and press my palm to his cheek. "Everything's going to be fine. There's nothing to worry about." He stares intently at me for a moment and I have to pull away. "Well, I guess that means I should get going. I told him I'd meet him in front of the restaurant and I've only got about fifteen minutes to get there."

Before I can turn away he grabs my hand, holding it in his.

"Be careful, Stella," he says and presses a small kiss to the inside of my wrist. I shiver at his caress and my voice is soft when I speak.

"You too, Mac."

-----

Watching her walk out that door is probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Facing enemy fire was nothing compared to seeing her nervous smile disappear behind a closed door, neither of us knowing what to expect on the other side of it. I want nothing more than to go with her and keep her safe, but I can't. I'm forced to watch her walk away. I feel helpless now, and it's not a feeling I can brush off.

-----

The drive to the restaurant seems to come and go in a flash. I climb in the cab—which is no small feat in a formal dress—and I'm staring out the window when suddenly he pulls to the curb, telling me that the ball is waiting for me. He laughs at the joke and I smile, wondering if he knows just how close he is to the truth. I don't know if a ball is in my near future, but if there's one thing I know it's that it won't be Prince Charming that's waiting for me.

I'm reaching for the door handle when it's pulled out of my grasp, the door swinging open. The big bad wolf is staring down at me, menacing smile in place. I take Raphael's hand, allowing him to pull me from the cab. He closes the door behind me and steps to the window to throw the driver a hundred dollar bill. The man thanks him profusely and speeds away before Raphael can change his mind. For a moment I'm wishing he could be speeding away with me still in the back seat.

"You look stunning, Stella," he tells me, eyes scanning every inch of me. I suppress the urge to cringe and offer him my best smile. I twirl in place, giving him the full view. He's dressed in a tuxedo, complete with a black tie.

"You like?" I ask. "You said formal. Is this formal or what?"

"It's something, alright," he says and whistles. "It almost feels like these tickets are a waste of time. No one's going to be looking at the show, especially me."

"Tickets?" I ask. "What tickets?"

He pulls two rectangular pieces of thick paper out of the breast pocket of his suit and hand them over to me, watching my face for the slightest sign of a reaction. I read the words emblazoned across the top and I have to read them again, unsure if it's my nerves that's causing me to see things. The writing doesn't change, however, and I'm forced to smile despite the sick feeling in my stomach.

The tickets are to a ballet; one of my favorites.

"Cinderella!" I exclaim, feigning excitement. "Raphael, How did you get these? This show has been sold out for a month!"

"I know a guy who knows a guy," he says nonchalantly. "How about it, princess? How did I do?"

"Beautifully," I say and accept his kiss as he leans in to offer it. I close my eyes and try to block out the rest of the world, praying that Mac isn't watching this—I couldn't live with the guilt.

I know that it's Raphael's arms that have wrapped around my waist, but I tell my brain not to notice. As far as I'm concerned, it's Mac that I'm embracing. I picture him in his suit from earlier tonight and my breath stutters a little in my chest. I'm struck by the sensuality that seems to emanate from him in never-ending waves, acting like a magnet that keeps pulling me closer.

I can see him walking toward me, his eyes intense and getting darker by the second. He's barely a breath away when he stops, staring down at me. He caresses my face before pulling me into a kiss that makes me weak in the knees. The image is almost enough to convince my desperate heart that what I'm imagining is the truth. When Raphael pulls away my eyes reveal the dishonesty in the fantasy, the disappointment is almost strong enough to make me cry.

His mouth pulls into a smirk and I smile back.

"Let's go," he says. "We've got places to be and the night is young."

-----

I watch Raphael lean in to kiss Stella and my temper rages like a wildfire, spreading quickly out of control. My hands fist at my sides and I want to put one through the dashboard. Flack is the only reason I don't, as he's sitting beside me and trying not to be as angry as I am. I see his jaw clench from the corner of my eye, but neither of us says anything. I'm sure we'd both like to be doing something other than watching a serial killer touch her, but we don't appear to have a choice. This is the division of labor that we've decided upon, and I'm sure we're both regretting it.

Finally, their kiss ends and I let out a breath that I hadn't realized I was holding. I watch as Stella smiles and she takes his hand, staring in wonder as a long black limousine pulls to the curb. Flack and I share a look of mutual disbelief, but then our eyes are back on the scene in front of us. Raphael opens the door for her and she stares in wonder. We can't tell what she's saying, but her reactions are genuine. They climb in and a few moments later the limo pulls away, blending into the oncoming traffic. Flack starts the car and we follow, allowing no less than three cars in between us. We could probably allow more distance, but we doubt anyone will be paying attention.

I'm debating the wisdom of letting her go on this excursion without some type of wire—I would kill to be able to hear what was going on in that limo—when Flack speaks, suddenly interrupting the silence.

"You care about her."

The statement is short and to the point, leaving no room for debate. Just as well, because I wasn't planning on denying it.

"Yeah," I say, my voice trailing off. "Yeah, I do."

"It shows," he replies. "In both of you."

I nod and stare straight ahead, wondering where this conversation is going. He doesn't say anything more for a few seconds, content to leave me to my thoughts. My thoughts are wildly varied, running the gamut from affection for Stella to hatred for Raphael and everything in between. I'm finding it hard to settle on any single emotion, realizing that none of them comes close to what I'm actually feeling. Normally I would be content to let this stand, but there's something about tonight that has me unable to calm down.

"Listen, Taylor," Flack starts, "Stella would never admit it, but right now she's fragile. She's recovering from one hell of an ordeal. Frankie really shook her up, and one more disappointment might break her completely."

I nod. If her past attack was anything to judge by, she's had more than enough terrible experiences.

"I see the way she looks at you. She trusts you," he says, not looking at me. His eyes are trained on the road ahead of him, and we both prefer it that way. "And that's saying something for her. She trusts very few, and for good reason."

"I'm not planning on hurting her," I say, predicting precisely where this conversation is going. "Not if I can help it."

"Good," he says and it ends the conversation completely, both of us more focused on the scene coming into focus just ahead of us.

People in formal wear are lined up the sidewalk of an impressive theater, just another of many in the city. It doesn't take us long to decide that this is our destination, and the question of how we'll be getting in follows soon after.

"What do you think?" Flack asks me as we watch the limo pull to the curb. "I'm sure we could find a scalper or two if we really wanted to."

"I don't suppose either of us has a few hundred lying around," I point out. I watch as the valet opens the door and Raphael climbs out, offering Stella his hand as he helps her out of the car.

"I don't suppose we do," he replies, "Any other ideas up those fancy sleeves of yours?"

I cut my eyes at him but nod my head.

"Distraction, maybe," I say, "Most buildings like this have a back entrance. You distract the security guard while I sneak in. After that, I'll just blend in with the crowd."

"What kind of distraction are we talking about here?" Flack says, his eyes searching our surroundings for a potential place to park. As packed as the street is, I'll be surprised if we don't spend the entire show in the car and driving in circles.

"The simplest one we can get away with," I tell him honestly. "The less attention we call to ourselves, the better."

"Isn't the idea of a distraction to call attention to ourselves?" he asks sarcastically and I nod because he's exactly right.

"To you, maybe. Not to me."

"Yeah, alright," he says, "I can probably make something happen."

Ten minutes later we've parked the car and we're walking toward the theater. Flack's arms are left hanging severely at his side as he moves, looking like a gunslinger on his way to a showdown. His blue eyes have hardened to ice chips in his face and his mouth has been pressed into a determined grimace, warning all those surrounding him not to come near. I'm almost too aware of the stress in his stance as we walk together, but it's easier to keep my mind off him when I consider that Stella and Raphael are close by.

It's her that my mind fixates on; what she's doing, and if she's scared. I know she must be, because my pulse is pounding in my veins and I'm doing my best not to buckle under the pressure. Operating under fire is what I'm trained to do, and I do it well when it's my life that's on the line. Stella's, though, I'm not nearly so careless with. Contemplating for possibly the millionth time since meeting her, I'm wishing I hadn't let her talk me into this. I can't make myself wish her away, but I would have gladly traded our meeting for one more civilized.

Almost unaware that I was following him to begin with, I fall in behind Flack and stop when he does. We're at the very back of the line, but we can see down an alley down the side of the theater. Flack nods once and then we're moving, seeing no one along the way that would stumble unwittingly into our path. It's a longer journey we thought to get to the light at the end of the tunnel, but we get there. The seconds seem to drag as we press ourselves against the wall, Flack cautiously poking his head around to the corner to get a visual on our target. He spies for a few moments before turning back to me.

"There's just the one back door, but I don't see a security guard posted," he whispers to me. "It's either locked, or the guy's stepped inside for something."

"Which is more likely?" I ask and he shrugs.

"Your guess is as good as mine right now," he says. "I'll tell you what, though… I hate all this sneaking around crap. I like it much better when I can just waltz in with a warrant and let them figure everything else out."

"Nothing's that easy," I laugh.

"Yeah, you're telling me," he scoffs. "I say we flank the door and at least give the knob a try. If we get in and someone makes something of it, we'll deal with it then. The most important thing right now is to get you in the building where you can keep an eye on them."

"Sounds good enough to me," I say and invite him to get moving. "After you."

"Right, let's go," he says and then we're moving.

Our footsteps are almost silent against the noises coming from the mass of people on the other side of the building, but noise isn't really our biggest consideration at the moment. The back of the building is huge but not very well lit, and I find myself wondering if there's security personnel around that we're not able to see. If anyone's there, though, they're not speaking up. We reach the door without any kind of incident or alarm sounding, which is definitely a point in our favor. I take the left side and Flack takes the right, his hand reaching out to grab the door's handle. Before he can reach it, the handle turns and Flack jumps back.

"Yeah, I'll be right back," a woman's voice sounds from the other side of the door. A thick Jersey accent coats her speech, and I can almost hear the pack-a-day habit she's been sporting for the last few years. Someone replies to her, and I can hear her cackle. "Nah, I'm taking a smoke break. You won't even notice I'm gone."

When the woman opens the door, Flack is the one she lays eyes on. At well over six feet tall, it's easy to see why he so easily grabbed her attention. Her hand is holding the door open, effectively blocking me from view. I can't see her, but her voice is nothing short of nails on a chalkboard.

"What are you doing back here, cutie?" she asks in a sticky-sweet voice laced with nicotine. "No one's supposed to be back here."

"Jeez, really?" he asks bashfully, and I can almost see him running his hand nervously through his hair. "I guess I'm kinda lost."

"You're here to see 'Cinderella,' right?" she asks.

"Yeah, that's me," he says and laughs. "I've been promising my sister for months that I'd take her. She's supposed to meet me here."

"This place can get pretty hard to navigate," she agrees. "Why don't I walk you to the front? A city like this could be dangerous, you know. You really shouldn't be wandering around by yourself."

"Would you mind?" he asks. "I'd hate to bother you, Miss…"

"Mackey," she says and then the intonation of her voice turns to a low purr that I'm sure she thinks is sexy. "But you can call me Geraldine."

"Geraldine," Flack corrects and I'm impressed by the cool he still manages to keep in his voice. "Are you sure you don't mind? I don't want to trouble you."

"No trouble at all, handsome," she says and props the door open with a kickstand that must be on the other side. "I'll leave this open so I don't get locked out and I'll walk you up there. They won't miss me."

"You're a saint," Flack fawns and I hear their footsteps fade in the opposite direction. I wait until I'm certain they're around the corner before moving cautiously out of my hiding spot, surveying the area. I see nothing out of the ordinary and my ears only pick up the sound coming from the commotion of backstage.

I slip in the door without a second look.

The theater's backstage is a cyclone of noise and music and movement, the faces blurring around me before I even have time to adjust. I stand, frozen, waiting for someone to call attention to the fact that I don't belong there but no voice calls out, and no finger points in my direction. With some amazement, I doubt any of them have even noticed me. They're all working out costumes and makeup and the set itself, ignorant of the intruder in their midst. I suppose I should be thankful, of course, but it's awkward all the same.

I finally order myself to snap out of it and my brain reluctantly complies, forcing my legs out of their lethargy. I move quickly, weaving in and out of the faceless and bustling crowd. It takes me a little while, but my ignorance of the building's layout doesn't stop me from finding my way. The guest's lobby is packed to the brim, its floral walls keeping Manhattan's elite comfortable in its squalor. The carpet under my feet is lush and dyed the deepest shade of scarlet, making no attempt to hide the money that obviously went into its making. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, reminiscent of the old opera houses I've only ever seen in the movies my mother used to watch all those years ago.

Surreptitiously scanning the faces in the crowd, I come to the conclusion that Raphael and Stella have already found their seats. I make my way to the theater's actual stage, pushing my way gently through the crowd that refuses to part. Two ushers in tuxedoes open the door wide for me and I walk through, my eyes only just aware of the magnificent scenery surrounding me. Rather than surveying the intricate gold and red décor and eye-catching artwork, I instantly start looking for Stella.

It takes me barely a moment to find her. I find her curly hair piled onto the top of her head and held up by jeweled pins, and few curls left to fall around her face. Her slender neck is adorned with a demure diamond necklace, and I doubt I've ever seen a woman look so beautiful in my life. Raphael is leaning down, whispering something in her ear. I watch as she tilts her head back and laughs openly, the sound reverberating in the air that separates us. My heart speeds up a bit and I realize that I can't be found staring at her this way. More and more people are starting to enter the theater, and I'll look very out of place standing in the aisle and staring like an idiot.

I take a seat a few rows back, close enough for me to watch but still far enough away to hide my identity from anyone who might be watching. The theater is quickly filling as the lobby empties. The ballet begins in a few minutes, and no one wants to miss it. I can see Stella shifting in her chair, and I can tell by the way she's holding herself that she's anxious to see the show. I want to take her back here one day so that she can enjoy it a little more comfortably, but I'm not entirely sure that she'll want to relive this memory.

A few minutes after sitting down, the orchestra plays a warm-up note and the lights dim. The spotlight shines unapologetically at the as-yet closed curtains, and everyone in the room simultaneously adjusts themselves as the orchestra plays its first few warm-up notes. I fold my hands in my lap and try to look natural, knowing that I feel everything but.

_Well, _I think with a sigh as the curtains begin to open, _On with the show._

**A/N: This was actually supposed to be half of one chapter, but it got much too long for me to keep it as just the one. The next one will probably be a lot longer, seeing as how Mac and Stella are about to have quite a bit on their plate. ;)**


	23. Love, Save the Empty

**Author's Note:**

**Hello all! Thanks, once again, for all the kind words. You make me smile. =) **

**I don't really have much to note this time around, so I guess you should just read and enjoy. (Hopefully.) A million and a half thanks to Lily, the best beta in the entire world. She helped a lot with this chapter and with discussion/plot things that I couldn't work out on my own. **

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

"**Love, Save the Empty"**

I feel Mac in the theater with me, but I don't dare turn around and look for him. Raphael is seated beside me, his eyes focused on the stage. A young girl is dancing in her rags, and she moves like the veteran dancer I know she must be. She can't be more than eighteen, but she's probably been dancing since she was old enough to walk. I try to focus on the ballet and the individual motions, breaking the stunning whole down to its parts. The act ends up taking my mind off most of everything else, letting my heart slow to a normal pace and my shoulders to relax. Focusing on the dancing allows the knots in my muscles to fade slowly to the background, the stress melting away with every song. I remember why I loved this so much, and for a moment I miss it.

Then the moment is gone as quickly as it came and suddenly Raphael is standing, applauding. I stand and look around to realize that the ballet is over. Women around me are dabbing their eyes and men are checking their watches, contemplating whatever sporting event they sacrificed to be here. I applaud along with the crowd but my excitement is only for show. My anxiety is back in full swing, waiting for whatever curve ball Raphael has planned next. My eyes crawl to his face and the smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The picture it presents is one that most people only see in nightmares when they're chased by a faceless monster, comforted only when they wake, sweating, in their beds. In that instant I envy them, because this is just another nightmare I can't wake up from.

The smile I give him is entirely forced but he accepts it as genuine, placing his hand in the middle of my back to usher me out into the aisle. As I'm walking out ahead of him I catch a flash of something out of the corner of my eye and turn to find Mac a few seats away. I catch his eyes for a split second before snapping back to attention, eyes-forward. Raphael doesn't seem to notice my slight distraction and I silently say a prayer of thanks, leaning into him as we enter the crowded lobby. He pauses a few times to talk to people I don't know, ever the charming socialite. He introduces me to his acquaintances, of course, and I return their brief attention with a smile and a nod of my head.

All the polite banter and carefully crafted smiles are driving me up the wall before even five minutes has passed. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but instead I smile and nod my head until I feel like I'll get whiplash. Just when I think I can't take anymore, I feel the slightest brush of skin against my wrist and I don't have to turn around because I know exactly who it is. I keep my hand behind my back and relish this forbidden gesture, my eyes almost fluttering shut as the very tip of his finger moves from the sensitive skin at my wrist and up my arm, only to come back down. Mac's touch is gone soon after, and I know that he's disappeared back into the crowd. Our contact was brief but it's given me the confidence I need to keep my head up—for a little while longer, at least.

Finally Raphael bids his audience farewell and we head for the door, his hand heavy against my bare back.

"Sorry about that," he says as we reach the front doors, "My family is well-known among the fine arts crowds. Of course I'm expected to put in an appearance with the rest of the club."

"Of course," I say and step out into the night air, "Family comes first."

"I completely agree," he says with a smile, "Which leads me to my next question."

"Okay, shoot."

"This weekend my family is planning a day at the beach," he explains while people pass on either side of us, searching for their cars, "My parents, my brother and his family, and a couple of friends are all going. I was hoping you would accompany me."

"Absolutely," I say and sacrifice a quick kiss on his lips. "It sounds wonderful."

"It's a date then," he says and we watch as our limo pulls up to the curb.

-----

Stella's been gone maybe five minutes when Flack pulls up and motions for me to get in. He rolls down the window and tells me that Stella's just texted him: she's headed back to my apartment now. I get in the car and barely have time to shut the door before Flack speeds away from the curb and back into traffic. I look over at him and it doesn't take me long to notice the bright red smear of lipstick on his right cheek.

"I know what you're looking at, and don't say a word," he orders.

"I wasn't going to say anything," I reply calmly. "I'm guessing Geraldine was friendlier than we thought."

"Yeah, tell me about it," he scoffs, "I'm going to have a hard enough time explaining this to my girlfriend. The woman must wear the permanent stuff… I've been scrubbing for an hour, and it's not going anywhere."

"What else did Stella say?" I ask, navigating the conversation back to something more important than a stranger's lipstick.

"She's headed to your apartment—she'll stay there for twenty minutes, or until Raphael leaves, and then she'll meet you back at her place," he says, his eyes never leaving the road ahead of him. "I thought it was pretty weird that he's just dropping her off, but whatever. I'm sure Stella's ready to get out of there."

"Why is it weird?"

"Well, you know," he says and shifts awkwardly in his seat, "They've been on a couple of dates now and everything. Not that I want him to try anything, you know, but he's a guy, right?"

"Right," I respond uneasily, following his train of thought.

My fists clench beside me at the thought of Raphael making a move on Stella, but the questions we're both asking ourselves have to be answered. Not tonight, though. Tonight I just consider it a break and wave it aside. Flack doesn't seem to want to carry the conversation any farther, and he keeps to himself for the rest of the trip across town. I'm thankful, because I need the thinking space. Something still feels incredibly wrong and I can't place it. It's going to nag at me until I figure it out, but I don't expect much.

A few minutes later we're in front of Stella's apartment building. I expect him to kill the engine and climb out of the car with me, but he stays put and gives me an expectant glance.

"I think you two can handle it from here," he says with a casual smirk and I have to fight to keep mine hidden.

"Yeah, I guess so," I reply and offer a hand. "Take it easy, Detective."

"You too, Mac," he says and shakes my hand, laughing a bit. Five minutes later he's gone, probably working on the best possible explanation for the lipstick on his cheek. I can only imagine the trouble he'll be going home to, so I chuckle and wish him luck—he's going to need it.

I walk into the building and toward the elevator, planning to go up and work on something for us to eat before Stella gets home. I'm mentally inventorying her refrigerator when the elevator stops and a small bell informs me that I've reached my destination. The hallway is silent and still, which is more than a little unusual based upon my previous experiences in this building. Stepping out of the elevator and in the direction of Stella's front door, it doesn't take me long to place the feeling of unease—her door is open.

I move to one side of the door and keep my back pressed firmly against the wall, listening for any movement. My right hand goes to the gun just under my left arm and pulls it out of its holster, flicking the safety off in one fluid motion. Within a few seconds I hear scuffling inside, and the sound of a window being opened. I step forward and push the door open with my free hand, revealing only an open window and a single curtain billowing in the breeze. It's not the curtain, though, that tightens my grip on the gun and stops my heart in my chest.

Stella's apartment is covered in blood.

It's pooled in certain places on her otherwise immaculate wood floors, and it's been slung carelessly across the furniture and walls. What looks like photos litter the floor in millions of copies, and it doesn't take two glances to tell me that they're photos of Stella after Frankie's attack. One of her hands is close to my feet, and it makes me sick to look at the jagged lacerations on her fingertips where she now has thin white lines of scar tissue. Another one a few feet away is of her bruised and battered face, and my chest constricts when I notice the tears brimming in her eyes.

My mouth goes dry as I overlook the carnage, the only thing spurring me out of my daze being the idea that someone is still here. Bringing my gun back up, I move silently throughout the apartment. My footsteps are silent and quick, but it doesn't matter. Her apartment is now empty, but it gives me a better idea of the damage that's been done. On the floor near her bed—the one we've been sharing—is a tracing of a body with three large red stains in the torso. It doesn't take me long to figure out that this is where Frankie's body would have been years ago, when this crime scene was still a fresh one. The photos scattered on the floor in this part of her home are of Frankie; autopsy photos as well as those of the crime scene. The bathroom has a few sheared pieces of rope left in the bathtub, as well as blood and a disassembled razor.

Stella's never told me explicitly about this event, but I know without her telling me that this is where she escaped. The scars she now wears on her fingertips are the result of her escape, where she injured them while cutting the ropes off her hands and feet. I try not to think about her here, a prisoner in her own home, but my investigator's mind calls an image forth. I can imagine Stella here and it kills me. I turn quickly and leave the bathroom behind, knowing that I have to stop her before she comes home. There's no way in hell I'm ever letting her see this. Going through it once was more than enough.

I grab my phone and call her, anxiously pacing in the kitchen.

"Hey," she says breathlessly, "I was just going to call you. I'm headed out the door of your apartment now."

"No, don't," I say and my voice is a little more forceful than I would have liked. "No, uh, I'll meet you there instead. We can go out."

"What?"

"Well, we're all dressed up," I reply, hoping she doesn't hear the nerves in my voice coming quickly to the surface, "It would be a shame to waste it. I know this great Argentinean place I've been meaning to try out."

"Okay…" she trails off, obviously perplexed by my behavior. "I'm starving anyway, so that works just as well. I want to change shoes, at least. These are killing me."

"I'll bring you a pair," I say, "Which ones do you want?"

"Mac, what's going on?" she asks, her voice raising an octave. "What's wrong? Why are you acting so strange?"

"I'm just restless," I lie, "I was sitting still too long. Everything's fine."

"You're sure?"

"Positive," I reply. "So just stay put, and I'll come to you."

"Okay, if that's what you want to do," she says reluctantly, "I'll just wait here, then."

"Good. Great," I correct nervously. "I'll see you soon."

I disconnect the call before she can argue any further and turn around, looking at the massive amounts of damage surrounding me. It occurs to me to call Flack and get him in here, but then Stella's team would be called in and I know for a fact that I don't want to explain everything to them. I no longer think that the blood is of anyone recently deceased, because my search of the apartment didn't turn up a body. The scene is looking more and more like an elaborate setup. The blood will probably be that of an animal, and I don't hold out any hopes whatsoever of finding a fingerprint that goes back to Raphael Benevuto.

It's all a setup—just another stage production. It's not his first, but I have a feeling it's going to be his last.

-----

My hand is shaking when I set my phone down, and I know it has nothing to do with hunger. Mac's voice is echoing in my ears, and the horrible feeling of dread deep in the pit of my stomach is telling me that it has nothing to do with restlessness. I sit on the edge of his bed and try to get my bearings, only to find that they've made themselves scarce. His apartment is absolutely silent around me, but my solitude is no comfort at all. If anything, it's only making my unease worse.

Something has to be wrong.

The thought won't leave me alone, and the more I consider it the more I believe that I'm right. Nothing feels right about Mac asking me to wait for him here, but I hate the idea that he's hiding something from me. I haven't felt that he's had the need to in a long time, but the doubt is there. I don't know what he would have to hide, I realize. Does he have new evidence? Has something else happened? I have a million questions, and no answers. It's a sensation that I've always hated, and some things never change.

I can't just sit here, I realize with increasing confidence. Whatever's going on, I need to be there. I can't just lay back and let whatever it is happen—I've never been the type to remain an innocent bystander. I'm a fighter: always have been, always will be. I don't know if I have anything to fight yet, but I'll know soon enough.

I lock Mac's apartment behind me and head to the elevator, smiling as a woman holds the doors for me.

"Thanks," I say breathlessly. "Moving in these heels is nearly impossible. My feet are killing me."

"Oh, no problem, I understand. Stilettos are the original torture device," she says with a smile before giving me a wistful look. "Your dress is absolutely gorgeous."

"Thank you," I reply, "I was terrified I wouldn't fit into it after all these years. I don't go out much these days."

"Tell me about it," she scoffs, "Since my third baby was born, going out has been a thing of the past. I haven't seen a movie in theaters since 'Saving Private Ryan'." She laughs a while and studies me. "You look familiar. You don't have kids, do you?"

"Me? No," I say and fight not to add, _but I want to eventually. _

"Hmm. I could have sworn that was it," she replies. "I thought you may have been one of the other moms in the building. Never mind, then."

Seconds later the elevator stops and we both get out, heading for the door. We wave goodbye at the sidewalk as she takes off in the opposite direction. I hail a cab and order him in the direction of my apartment, promising a big tip if he can make it in twenty minutes or less. He nods his head vigorously and takes off like a horse from the gate. I'm thrown back against my seat and that's when I deem it necessary to buckle up.

Fourteen minutes and seven seconds later, we're parked at the curb in front of my apartment building. As promised, I hand him a fifty-dollar bill and instruct him to keep the change. He gives me a wide smile and a polite nod of his head, and I climb out of the cab. I look up and see that my apartment lights are still on—which means that Mac hasn't left yet. Wondering what the hell is going on, I charge through the front doors and climb onto yet another elevator. This one goes much faster, and I have it to myself.

As I approach my door I start to hear running water, and I wonder what Mac could possibly be doing. I reach for the knob and try to turn it, finding it locked. Cursing under my breath, I dig around in my tiny handbag for my keys. I find them after pulling out almost everything else, as is custom when you're looking for something important. I shove the key into the lock with a grunt of frustration, my emotions now closer to anger than worry. Now the doorknob turns without a problem and I push the door open with my hip, announcing my presence to the apartment.

"Mac, it's me!"

I was telling him that I decided to come over and change my shoes anyway, and I didn't hear his loud command of, _"Stella, don't!"_

Even when I do realize what he's said, it's far too late.

My eyes land on the blood and on the pictures, and my knees start to buckle beneath me. I try to scream but nothing happens. I can only stare in absolute horror for the longest few seconds of my life before Mac storms out of the kitchen and crosses the distance between us. His arms circle me and pull me close, but I don't feel any of the warmth I usually do when I'm with him. I'm entirely numb when I take a shuddering breath, and this time I manage to scream. The sound is muffled against Mac's chest, but I scream anyway, unable to stop. Tears burn the backs of my eyes like acid and I scream until I'm weak, sinking to my knees and pulling Mac with me.

He holds me against him while I wail, shaking and trying to force all the images out of my head. For a moment reality escapes me and it's Frankie that's smothering me, all conscious thought rioting as I try to escape. When he only presses me tighter against him I panic, writhing to get out of his reach. It works until I fall backwards, my head cracking against the hard wood floor. I'm dazed even when Mac leans over me and tries to lift me up. I flinch away from him, unaware of where or who I am.

"Stella, it's me," he says softly but doesn't try to touch me again. "It's me, Mac." I whimper and his eyes close for a moment, as though he's praying. When he opens them again I see the fierce blue, and I know that he's not Frankie. He presses his hand gently against my cheek and I don't flinch, but I sob.

"I'm here again," I cry, heartbroken, "I never wanted to be here again."

"Ssh, it's okay," he tells me and this time I allow him to pull me upright and into his arms. "You're with me. You're safe, Stella."

"I'll never be safe," I whisper, unaware that I'd spoken at all.

I feel his hands go under my arms and he pulls me to my feet. I sway a bit but his hand is there to catch me. He ushers me into the hallway and leans me against the wall, telling me something along the lines of, "Keep breathing for me, okay?" I don't answer him but he hurries away, leaving me to concentrate on the breaths I don't even care if I take. I don't know how long he's gone—it could have been minutes, and it could have been hours—but then he's back, taking my hand and leading me down the hallway. Away from _that place_. I don't care where we're going as long as it's anywhere but here.

-----

Stella's terrified face sticks with me even as I lock the door and leave that nightmare behind. I clasp her hand in mind and realize that her skin is as cold as it looks, and her color has failed her almost completely. She looks pale and drawn in the unforgiving light, and I hate myself for doing this to her. Walking quickly, I don't let her go for a moment. She moves mindlessly, allowing herself to be led without question. Her eyes are dark and she keeps them trained on the floor, unblinking. It breaks me to see her so empty, but the only thing I can do now is keep her safe. It's becoming painfully obvious that it's no longer safe here.

It takes us almost half an hour to hail a cab and cross town to get back to my apartment, and all the while Stella is lifeless beside me. She's staring out the window, entirely unresponsive to my gentle pressure on her hand. Her pulse is light and feathery, and I have the terrifying—if short-lived—thought that she's gone into shock and become catatonic. The idea dispels itself quickly once we come to a stop and she reaches for the handle herself. I hand over the fare and follow her, guiding her with a steady hand against her lower back. She doesn't move away but she doesn't lean into me, either.

She hands me the keys I gave her earlier this evening for my front door and I let us in, holding the door for her. She moves through the apartment like a ghost, touching nothing and leaving no trace that she'd ever been here. I follow her to the bedroom and she stops just short of the bed, looking around like she has no idea how she got here. Going to my dresser, I pick out a large t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants for her and lay them on the bed.

"Get changed and go to bed," I instruct gently, standing just in front of her. "Things will be better when you wake up." She nods wordlessly but I don't think she knows what I've said, or even that I've said anything at all. It's nothing short of torment to see her like this, and guilt tears me to shreds before I have the chance to blink.

"I'm so sorry, Stella," I say, my voice cutting into the thick silence that surrounds us. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you."

This seems to bring her out of the trance she's inhabited since collapsing on her living room floor almost an hour ago, and I'm comforted to see the fiery green back in her previously dull eyes. She doesn't say a single word, but she's quick to reach out and grab my hand. She holds it in her own before pulling me closer and frantically searching my eyes with her own. I stare, momentarily stunned, as her hands rest on either side of my face and she touches her mouth to mine. I know the salty taste on her lips is a combination of tears and misery, and I hate myself more in that moment than I ever have in my life.

I pull away when the remorse is too much for me to take, ignoring my body's reaction to a kiss that is very possibly the most powerful I've ever experienced. I need to walk out—I _know _that—but Stella's gaze has me frozen in place.

"I want to forget, Mac," she says, her voice wavering. "For one night, I don't want to be afraid anymore."

"Stella…"

"Please," she begs, "I need you."

I'm smart enough to read through the subtext—it's not sex that Stella's asking for, but shelter from the storm. I see the fear and longing in her eyes, and I don't dare refuse her. Despite the plea that's still hanging in the air between us, I can't help but feel like this is a bad idea. It's too soon, and I don't want to hurt her any more than I already have. She knows what I'm thinking without having to ask, but her face is calm and her hands are steady as she runs them across my chest. I catch her wrists in my hands, impeding them in their journey and holding her against me.

My body seems to take on a mind of its own before I can think to stop it. I lean down to kiss her and I feel her muffled sigh against my lips. Letting go of her wrists, I let my hands wander up her arms to cradle her face in my palms. I wipe away the trails of mascara that had clung to her tears and I wish I could take it all back, knowing already that it isn't possible. I can't go back in time, but I can steal another sleepless night and offer her whatever comfort I can. I force all thoughts of guilt out of my mind and focus instead on the woman in my arms, who's waiting for me to make up my mind. The feelings I have for her stir things much deeper than the surface, and I wonder at how much I really care for her.

The idea of love strikes me and makes me pause for the slightest moment, because it never occurred to me that it was possible. In the end, though, I realize that it's the truth. It's terrifying and exciting at the same time, and it only makes me appreciate her more. I feather my lips over her quickly heating skin, steadfastly worshiping the hollow of her throat and curve of her neck. Her head falls back, allowing me better access, and a breathy sigh falls from her lips. In that moment my heart stutters, falling helpless at her feet. I'm not sure how it's possible, but the realization is a relief.

I love her.

I kiss my way from her neck to her jaw and then her lips, pouring everything I feel for her into a kiss that stuns us both with its intensity. Our hearts beat faster with ever second that passes, and before long our breathing is heavy. Her hands lay restlessly on my shoulders, her nails pressing gently into the jacket I'm still wearing. My fingertips explore the bare skin exposed by the back of her dress and wander just a little further, fleeting over cool fabric and heated flesh. The zipper of her dress is no match for the passion we both feel steadily building, and it surrenders without a fight. I back away for just a moment, taking my careful time pushing the fabric of her sleeves away from her body. They hang limply for a while, before the rest of the dress follows.

The delicate fabric hits the floor with barely a whisper and is swiftly forgotten.

**A/N: Hehe... couldn't help myself. ;) Can you blame me?**


	24. Everything to Lose

**Author's Note:**

**Hey! Sorry it's taken me an ungodly amount of time to get this update out... finals are honest-to-God kicking my bum. I'm sure that's a terrible excuse, but it's the only one I have access to at the moment. lol In any case, this is the next installment and I hope you all enjoy it.**

**Many thanks to Lily, who was a marvelous beta and entirely understanding in getting me back to work. =D Also to joannahobbit, who kept at me to work. Thanks to all of you who reviewed and reminded me that I had people waiting on chapters. lol**

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

"**Everything to Lose"**

My heartbeat is still coming down from the rafters when Stella curls against me, the slickened skin of her back pressing against my chest. I wrap my arm around her, keeping her close. Her breathing starts to calm and her eyes close; I find myself hoping that the world she finds when she finally falls to sleep is much better than the one she left. My mind is still reeling and I can't quite compose a coherent thought quite yet, so I settle for enjoying the feel of her next to me. Just when I think she's drifting off to sleep her voice breaks into the silence, just above a whisper.

"I'm not afraid anymore."

I smile at her words before pressing a light kiss into the hollow between her shoulder blades and trailing more up into her hairline. She settles herself against me and holds my hand in hers, bringing it up to her face to run her lips over my knuckles.

"I'm going to kill him."

The sentence makes me pause, but I don't for a second think that she's joking. Her eyes are open now and staring straight ahead.

"I wouldn't blame you," I say honestly, "But you can't."

"I have to," she insists, still staring ahead. "It's the only way this is going to end. It's the only way I can get my life back." I start to argue but she continues before I can. "I know I should try to catch him. I should get the evidence we need and turn him over to Flack, but I just can't make myself do it. He'd make bail, but it wouldn't matter. Even in prison he'd be protected… the Benevutos have a reach much farther than any of us think, and that's only if our case stands up in court."

I can't protest this, mainly because she's exactly right.

"It has to end somehow," she says and shifts in my arms to face me. "You know it does."

"Not like this," I say and try to push Nate Swift and the idea revenge out of the picture. I haven't thought of my own vengeance in weeks now, because it's fallen to the wayside in favor of something much more important. I contemplate telling her then how much I've fallen for her, but that's a conversation for another time and I can wait.

"Then how, Mac?" she asks me, her tempestuous green eyes probing mine. "He's made up his mind that he's going to torture me for the hell of it, and he doesn't even know that I'm actually a cop. If he finds out, he might just settle for killing me. How can I possibly fight back? It's just another one of his games, and I'm a pawn."

"You have too much to lose, Stella," I remind her. "You have your career, your reputation, and your integrity, not to mention your life. If something goes wrong and you get dragged into the middle of his death, the integrity of your entire lab could be at stake. Your team could be held responsible, too."

I watch as she considers this piece of information carefully, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she thinks. I know the faces of her team are floating through her mind, and she's considering each of their lives as she processes the question. Is it worth it? Could she do that to them? She comes finally to the conclusion I knew she would, and she closes her eyes in a show of defeat.

"I can't risk them, too," she says, "It's bad enough that I'm in this."

"_We're _in this _together_," I remind her and she smiles, a sight that still catches me off-guard if I'm not careful. It turns out to be harder than I ever thought it would be, because when she's around the word _careful _is probably the last thing on my mind.

"Yeah, we are," she sighs. "I'm so sorry about Nate. I really am, but don't ruin your life to make yourself feel better."

"This all sounds a little bit like déjà vu," I joke but she's not having it.

"I'm serious," she says firmly, "I'll promise not to kill him if you do."

"You're serious?" I ask, laughing.

"Yes, I'm serious," she insists, "And I mean it. Promise me."

"This is a man's life we're talking about," I say and do my best to hold a straight face, "He's a bastard, but his is still a life. We can't just make a deal on whether or not we're going to murder him."

"Oh, come on," she scoffs, "How long did you practice that face in the mirror this morning?"

I can't help it. I laugh.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," she says and laughs along with me. It seems entirely surreal that we're actually discussing murder, but I love that she seems freer now than she had been just over an hour ago. "So do it, promise me. I will if you will."

"Okay, I promise."

"Good. Me, too," she says and wraps her leg lazily over mine. I raise an eyebrow, and I don't dare suppress my smile.

"Most people seal a deal with a handshake."

"You know, I might have heard that somewhere," she says with a devilish smile that makes me fall for her all over again.

"I thought you might have."

"Come here," she laughs, "I've got something better in mind."

-----

The bright sunlight finds me awake just as it always does, and I've left Stella to sleep for the time being while I move around the silent apartment. I had planned to get up early and cook breakfast, but it's only taken a quick tour of my kitchen to realize that I haven't stayed here in weeks. There's barely any food to speak of in the entire apartment, but I find that there's enough coffee to make her a few cups to hold her over while I go out in search of food. I can leave that and a note, and Stella will undoubtedly find that enough to hold her over until my return.

So I scribble a few lines and leave them by the coffee pot, where I know she'll find the piece of yellow legal paper, and head for the door. It's still too early for the rest of my relatively quiet building to be up and moving, but it won't take long before everyone starts going about their day. Outside the world is starting to wake up and tired faces blend into the crowd around me as I move down the sidewalk. My eyes survey the crowd as they always do, silently taking inventory of the people and places around me. My mind is almost entirely at rest when a familiar profile catches my eye.

For a moment I stare in shock as Raphael weaves his way through the people in between us. I speed up to try and follow him, but my efforts are wasted. He's gone, and I'm running through a mass of people who are looking at me like I'm a lunatic. This time, when I search my surroundings for him, I come up empty. Is it possible that my mind was playing tricks on me? The idea isn't entirely unfounded; the last few days have been some of the most stressful I've experienced in quite some time. It wouldn't be such a stretch of the imagination that I see people who aren't really there.

There's a grocery store a few blocks away that I've frequented for a few years now, since first moving into the neighborhood. A balding butcher and his teenage son operate it, with the woman in the family selling flowers just outside the doors. She greets me with a smile as I approach, and I greet her with a quick kiss on her cheek. Mrs. Martin berates me on not eating, and then ushers me inside. Albert—the father—is standing at the counter when I enter, wiping his thick hands on a smudged white apron.

"Mac Taylor!" he shouts as I work my way to the front. "Where have you been all these weeks?" I start to explain my absence, but heavy footfalls stop me before I can.

"Mac's here?" a much younger voice says and then Charlie has charged into the store. "Did you tell him I enlisted?"

"Enlisted?" I ask of the younger boy, who's just barely more than a child. "Did you talk to the recruiter I told you about? When are you leaving for Parris Island?"

"You go ahead and tell him, Charlie," Albert says, "Tell him who you talked to."

"I'm an Army man now, Mac," he says and his smile is unrestrained. I have to fight to hide my own, despite telling him for the last year that he should be a Marine.

"Army, huh?" I ask. "All that stuff about the Corps you just ignored?"

"No, not ignored," he says and bashfully shoves his hands in his back pockets, "I considered. I wanted to explore all my options."

"And you did."

"I thought the Army was better for me," he says defensively and I give him a smile before patting my hand on his shoulder.

"Anyone should be proud of a man who wants to serve his country, no matter the branch," I say and he beams up at me. It won't be long until he's the taller of the two of us. "If the Army is what you want, then it's what the rest of us want."

"See, I told you he wouldn't be mad," Albert says with a good-natured smile. "The boy was convinced you'd tear him a new one once you found out."

"Nah," I say with a laugh. "Not my style."

I'm listening to Charlie go on and on about his recruiter and his MOS while I pick up the few items of food that I had planned for breakfast with Stella. I like hearing how thrilled he is to serve his country, and there's not a doubt in my mind that he'll make one hell of a soldier. He's a smart kid, and a compassionate one, and there's always room for those in the military. My thoughts are otherwise occupied for the next few minutes, so that I don't realize when a chime just above the door announces the arrival of another or when the sound of a heavy lock sliding into place quickly follows. It's not until Albert calls to the new patron that I realize anything has happened at all.

"Can I help you?" he asks and Charlie and I pause in our conversation to observe the newcomer. Raphael is dressed in a slate gray business suit with a cream-colored tie, looking very much the businessman. I do my best to pretend that I don't know him, and Charlie has already moved on to the next topic of conversation: boot camp. I strain to follow along, but it's harder than I thought it would be.

"I hope so," Raphael replies, rocking back on his heels. "It's him I'm here to see."

"You know Mac?" I hear Albert ask and my head jerks up, meeting frigid brown eyes in the process. Raphael is only a few feet away, and staring me down as though he's a snake waiting on his prey to make their first wrong move.

"You could say that," he replies.

"I don't think we've met," I say but don't offer my hand.

"Oh, not officially," he says, "Though Nate always meant to introduce us." I think he sees my instant rage in my face, because he smiles as though it had been his intention all along to infuriate me. "I can only imagine he's the reason you would be here now, or inhabiting the house next to my family's home: revenge. Am I correct?"

I say nothing, but instinctively move in front of Charlie. I can see Mrs. Martin out the window, smiling and selling her flowers. Albert is silent on the other side of the store.

"Your motives are simple enough and easily understood. Stella's, however, are much more difficult," he says and steps just a fraction closer. "I suppose the most obvious explanation would be that she's a detective with the New York Police Department, but it's unlikely that the obvious answer is the correct one. I know that she's the scientist in charge of investigating Jimmy Corelli's murder, but how does that translate to coming after me?

"I suppose it's possible that the evidence pointed her in my direction, but in that case she would have shown up with a warrant on my doorstep, just like she did at my aunt and uncle's home in Jersey," he says. "So if she wasn't lying to me out of professional reasons, what others are there? It's something that's been keeping me up the last few nights, I don't mind admitting. What do you think, Staff Sergeant Taylor? Why could she want to hurt me? Unless, of course, her motives are yours."

"You've known this entire time?" I ask incredulously.

"What you've been doing?" he says. "Oh, yes. For some time now. At first it was my intention to go after you, but when my associates discovered Stella in the house rather than you he got a little carried away. Imagine my surprise when she left the house and handed me her phone number, free of charge. It was disconcerting to realize that she was just another cop investigating my family, but then it didn't really matter. Not at first, anyway."

"And it does now?"

"She was just a bit of fun, you know. It was just another treat to find that you were involved romantically, and I decided then that I was going to use her to hurt you even more. Just fun," he says and I feel Charlie frozen in place behind me. Anxious energy is flowing off him in waves, and my heartbeat is racing to the same beat.

"Where's Stella?" I ask quickly, my stomach painfully dropping.

"In your bed, sleeping soundly… for now," he says, his voice ominously low. "That was quite a display last night, I have to say. The passion was very intense; beautiful, to say the least."

My jaw clenches and I have to convince myself not to lunge at him, and I know he's aware of my anger. The sly smile still glued on his face tells me that was exactly his intention, and there's no way I'm making a move quite yet. There are at least three innocent bystanders in the vicinity, and if he's got something a hell of a lot worse up his sleeve then I don't want any part of it.

"Okay, fine you know everything," I seethe, "What's your point?"

"The point is that the fun has gone out of everything," he replies, "I loved the idea of seeing what I could force her to do, and what I could force her to deal with. Her face last night, when she saw her apartment, was beautiful. An absolute masterpiece. But now…" he trails off, in though, "Now it's gotten old. And I've quite enjoyed Stella. We might just be able to have something, if we can put a stop to all these games and intrigues."

The idea that Stella would stay with Raphael is laughable, but there's no point in pointing that out. If he's got something bigger in mind, I want to know what it is.

"So this is the deal, and you'll only be offered it once: you can come outside and have a word with me, or this fine young man won't have the chance to be a soldier—Army or otherwise."

I raise an eyebrow, and I know we're having the same thought at the same time.

"I don't plan on fighting you, if that's what you're wondering. I have no delusions that I would be able to successfully fight a seasoned Marine," he says and the corner of his mouth tilts quickly up in a sick semblance of a smile, "But I have a few associates who do all my fighting for me, and there are no doubts in my mind that you would find it quite difficult to handle all of them at once."

After that, it's not as though I have much of a choice. I nod my head and set the items in my hand on the shelf nearest to me, giving Charlie a careful look that undeniably instructs, _Don't do anything. _He nods his head in a show of understanding and stands aside as Raphael and I head out of the building. He stops just short of the back door and turns, raising one finger in the air as a show of enlightenment.

"You know, I just thought of something," he says, turning to look at both Charlie and Albert as they stand, frozen, in their tracks. "I don't really want this little conversation to get interrupted before it's time, so we'll just put you gentlemen away for some safe keeping."

I can see Charlie open his mouth to ask what he means, but a quick look in his direction keeps him from speaking. I stand to side while he takes a quick overview of the back of the store, finally choosing the walk-in freezer as a suitable container to hold them. I protest—everyone does—but it's to no avail. Raphael is determined, so I watch as he herds them into the small space. I shove my hands in my pockets to find that I brought my cell phone with me, and before Raphael shuts the door on them I slip it into Charlie's hands. He quickly moves it out of sight and looks straight ahead, as though nothing had happened.

-----

_Stella-_

_Went to get breakfast. Be back soon._

_-M_

I smile at the small note in my hands while I pour my first cup of coffee for the day. I'm dressed in his baggy sweatpants and t-shirt, and I'm as comfortable right this moment as I've ever been in my life. The horrors of last night have disappeared almost entirely, though I know there will come a time that I have to go back there and repair my home for the second time. I consider calling Flack and letting him know, but he would only worry and try to make me stand aside. Since I have no intention of doing so, the call would be wasted. There's always a chance, though, that I'm not ready to do this alone. Since Mac is already out the door, Flack is my only choice. I don't entirely discount the idea.

I wait almost an hour before getting bored with sitting around the house. There's nothing on television, and there's nothing for me to do. I consider calling Mac and telling him to hurry up, but this is as good a time as any to run to my apartment and get a few things. I need a shower and an actual change of clothes, and I won't be able to find the latter of the two at Mac's apartment.

I take the yellow piece of paper and add a few words to the end of it, telling Mac to stay put—I'd be back soon. Hopefully he'd find it before he went ballistic with worry that I'd disappeared off the face of the planet. Just in case, I keep my phone with me as I head out the door.

-----

"They won't last long in there," I tell Raphael as we walk away, both of us listening to the murmured voices behind the door.

"They'll last long enough," he says, "Though it does give a new meaning to the phrase 'keeping it on ice'." He laughs at his own joke and I swallow my absolute hatred for him.

When we get out to the alley, it's a large black car and four other men who are waiting for us. They're all at least six feet tall, and most of them outweigh me by at least seventy-five pounds. One of them moves to open the trunk, and for one paralyzing moment I think that it's going to be Stella who's inside. When the lid pops open it's empty, save for a few long coils of rope. I laugh—both out of relief that Stella's supposedly fine, and the idea that this intimidation technique is enough to have me climb in that trunk with a goofy smile on my face.

"You're kidding, right?" I ask lightheartedly, surprising both of us with the laughter in my voice.

"What's so funny?"

"You expect me to just sit down and let you tie me up and stuff me in that trunk without a word?" I ask simply. "If you do, you're crazier than I've been giving you credit for."

"Maybe I am, because that was the plan."

"It's not much of one."

"So says you," he tells me. "In the end, it's Stella's choice what happens from here."

"What do you mean?" I ask him, almost afraid to know the answer.

"The way I see it, this is a win-win situation as far as I'm concerned," he explains, leaning against the rough brick wall behind him. "It's Stella's choice from here on out, and whatever she chooses will affect the rest of our lives. If she chooses me, we'll kill you and start our lives together. If she chooses you, I'll kill you both and go on doing exactly what I've been doing the first thirty-five years of my life."

"It can't be so simple for you," I reply. "Can it?"

"Life's always a gamble; a roll of the dice," he explains with a knowing grimace. "I simply find it much easier to keep the dice weighted in my favor."

"You have it all thought out."

"Thinking has always been my strong suit," he says, "But in the meantime, I might as well keep things interesting for me."

All it takes is a wave of his left hand and the four men surrounding us lunge. I'm not caught off-guard or surprised by this attack, but I can't say that I'm entirely prepared for it either. I duck under the arms of the biggest man and he turns around, stunned that I'd escaped his grasp. A fist catches the left side of my jaw before I have the presence of mind to move out of the way, and the man who threw it seems just as surprised as I am that the hit actually lands. I stagger back maybe a foot, and in the slight pause I strike back. My fist connects with his eye and then he's down, writhing on the ugly concrete ground and trying to stop the blood pouring from his nose.

It's a small victory in my favor, but there are still three men who have every intention of getting me in the trunk of that car. For one of them, all it takes is one clear shot to the jaw and he's out like a light. The price I pay for that offense is a similar punch to my rib cage, expelling every ounce of air from my lungs like a dam releasing the flood waters. The blow stills my hands for just a second, but it's long enough for one man to wrench my arms behind my back and twist them painfully to keep me in place. I try to wrench out of his grasp but it does no good—in this prone position, my strength doesn't match his.

The two other men stand in front of me, and neither of them looks happy. I say nothing, unwilling to provoke them. It doesn't matter, though, because I have barely a second before one of Raphael's bodyguards head-butts me and the world fades to black.


	25. All Together Now

**Author's Note:**

**Gah! Another chapter! Can it be? Yes, well, it is. =D I can't apologize enough for taking so long, but it's been a busy few weeks. From here on out, though, it's not going to be so long between updates. I promise. lol**

**Oh, and thanks to all of you who voted for this story in the 2009 Fanfic awards! I was very, very flattered. It made my weekend, you have no idea. **

**Many thanks to Lily, who caught a TON of mistakes in this before I posted it. Be sure to thank her, because otherwise this chapter wouldn't have been worth reading. lol**

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"**All Together Now"**

Turning my key in the lock is probably the one of the hardest things I've ever forced myself to do. I know what's waiting for me on the other side of the door, but that only makes it worse. There are some times that I firmly believe ignorance is bliss, but cowering in my hallway isn't going to make the miserable wasteland on the other side of my front door disappear. Knowing what waits for me is the worst part, the rest can only get easier. I turn the key and the sound of the lock sliding back is the only thing I can hear in the otherwise deserted hallway. I swing the door open and I'm greeted by the coppery smell of the blood that's congealed on my floors and walls. Nausea creeps up on me and almost doubles me over, but I grit my teeth and walk inside.

It's not hard these days to get a rise out of me, but I guess it must be easier than I thought it would be. My knees are almost shaking as I walk through the carnage, and the breaths I take are labored. I stare at the photos one by one and my hate for this monster grows exponentially until it's something I've never convinced myself I was capable of feeling for another human being. I step around the pools of blood and push the crime scene pictures out of my way as I walk, knowing the images there better than I should. I see the outline of Frankie's body on my carpet and my eyes burn with tears that I refuse to let fall.

My bathroom, though, is what breaks the dam. I can't handle seeing the crusted blood on the white porcelain of my bathtub or the straight razor that's lying in the bottom of it. There's rope, I know, but I don't care. I'm not interested in sticking around any longer than I absolutely have to, and I know that Flack is going to get a call sooner rather than later. I can't do this alone.

"Flack," he answers on the third ring and I sigh in relief.

"Hey, it's me. I need a favor."

"Name it."

"I need you to come to my apartment," I say and take a long breath, letting it out slowly. "Come alone, and leave your temper at the door."

"I really, _really _don't like the sound of that," he says reluctantly. "What's going on, Stel? What's happened?"

"It's a really long story that I don't feel like going into right now, but I need you to meet me."

"But you're okay?"

"Okay is a bit relative right now," I say sarcastically and then realize that if I keep up the dry humor he's going to come barging through my front door with his gun drawn. The idea isn't nearly so appealing when it's my trigger-happy best friend as opposed to the cool and collected Mac Taylor, who is currently out buying us breakfast. I know I need to get back to him, so I thoroughly intend to leave Flack the hard stuff.

"No, listen, I'm fine," I correct, deciding to have mercy on his nerves, "But I really do need you here. Would you mind swinging by?"

"Yeah, give me a few."

With that I snap my phone shut and listen to the harsh echo that tears out into the still room. I barely have time to draw a breath before realizing that I should call Mac and let him know where I am. If he comes home and doesn't find the note I left him he'll lose his mind, and I would really rather prevent that. It rings for almost a minute before I hear the click of his phone being answered. I expect to hear his gruff voice berating me for not being patient, but I should know better than that by now. Instead I hear a voice that I don't recognize, faint and frightened over the other end of the line.

"Hello?" it asks, breathless against the mouthpiece. "Is anyone there?"

"Who is this?" I ask in reply. I look at the name on my screen and my heart takes a strong leap into my throat. "Mac?"

"They took him," the voice says and I hear a slight tremor. "They took Mac."

"Who took him?" I ask, suddenly ignorant of the vandalism of my apartment and pacing along the floor. The voice sounds young and male, but I don't recognize it.

"I don't know," he replies, "But they put us in the freezer. We can't get out."

"Where are you?" I say, reaching for my keys without a second thought. He gives me an address just a few blocks away from Mac's apartment, and I don't like that all this happened while I was still sleeping less than a mile away. I get his name and tell him to hold on just a few moments longer, until I can get to him. I tentatively disconnect the call, needing to call Flack and have him meet me. I need to change clothes, and I need to call for help. I need an ambulance to meet me at the address the boy gave me. I'm frozen in time while the world is still moving around me, the sounds and images blurring until I feel lost in the chaos. It's still too hard for me to find my place, but I know that's exactly what I have to do. Who has him? Is this Raphael? Of course he's the most logical solution, but I can't be sure. I have no idea where he would be keeping him, even if I am sure that it's Raphael who's responsible. I don't know where to start.

Normally strategizing isn't my strong suit, but now that's exactly what I have to do. I think of Mac, wherever he is, and wish I could plan eight hundred steps in the future like he seems to do. He always seems to know what to do and how to act, and in this exact moment I envy that of him. It's now painfully obvious that I'm only Stella Bonasera, the sometimes reckless and deeply impulsive leader of a team of NYPD's finest. I feel entirely ill-equipped to deal with the cards handed to me, but I don't have the luxury of a do-over. Steadying myself by clenching my fists and taking a long breath, I stand in the middle of my living room and make a plan of action.

"I'm going to call Flack," I say, tapping my fingernails against the case of my cell phone, "I'm going to tell him to meet me with an ambulance at the store to find out where Mac is. I'm going to get dressed, and I'm going to find him."

I stare down at the blood on my floor and my plan is suddenly less comforting. This time, when I speak out loud, I do so with more determination.

"I _am _going to find him."

Ten minutes later I'm out the door, phone in hand. Flack has agreed to meet me near Mac's apartment to talk to the boy who called me a few minutes ago. I've tried calling back, but the call wouldn't reach. I've ordered an ambulance to meet us, too, just in case they've spent too much time in the cold temperatures. On a whim I asked Flack to convene the rest of the team at my apartment, where I'll owe them the explanation of a lifetime. With Mac gone and Raphael behind it all, it's painfully obvious that I can no longer act without them. I'll need their help to put an end to this nightmare, and now I can only hope that they'll be willing to give it.

The street alongside the store is crowded with cars and one awkward ambulance, but the cab driver I've temporarily employed is persistent in getting around the obstacles and dropping me off precisely where I've asked. I hand him a stack of bills and them climb out without bothering with my change, finding a distraught woman fawning over two men in the back of an ambulance. Judging by their ages, the youngest is probably the one that called me. They're shivering under blankets and talking to Flack, but they all seem okay. I rush over to them and speak breathlessly, finding much more pent-up energy in myself than I'd expected.

"Are you the one I just talked to on the phone?" I ask the younger boy, who quickly nods his head. "Why do you have Mac's phone?"

"He s-s-snuck it to m-me before h-he locked us in the f-f-freezer," he stutters, meeting my eyes.

"Mac locked you in the freezer?"

"No, the other man did," the older man interjected, "Mac gave Charlie the phone so he could call help, but we couldn't get a call out. Yours must have come through at just the right second."

"Lucky for you guys," Flack comments, looking over at me. "What did this other guy look like?"

"A few inches under six feet," the man replies, "Dark hair, dark skin. I'd say he looked Italian, but who doesn't in this town?"

Flack scoffs. "You're telling me."

"His eyes w-w-were dark, too," the boy says, "But not like a c-color. It's like he s-saw everything and n-n-nothing all at once." He shivers again, and holds the blanket tighter around his narrow shoulders. "It really freaked me out."

I swallow hard. I know now that there's no one else it could be.

"Do you know where they went?"

"Out into the back alley," Flack answers, nodding his head in the intended direction, "But there's nothing there. Maybe some tire tracks, but those could be from just about anyone."

"That can't be all there is," I say incredulously, "There has to be more than that for us to go on."

"No," he replies solemnly, "I'm sorry Stel."

I walk into the street, hands fisted in my hair, and I hear Flack excusing himself to the two people in the back of the ambulance. Not long after that I hear his quick footsteps behind me, and then I feel his hands on my shoulders.

"What happened, Flack?" I ask softly. "What could have happened to him?"

"According to the kid, he was in picking up a few things when this other guy locks them inside and starts talking," he says, "It sounded like they knew each other, but Mac said they'd never met. They talk for a few minutes about nothing the kid understood, and then they talked about you." My head jerks in his direction, and he nods grimly. "They talked about a cop named Stella."

"What?" I stammer. "He said cop?"

"Yeah," Flack replies softly. "The kid said the other guy was talking about knowing everything."

"Oh, my God," I gasp, feeling the walls closing in faster than I can push them away. "He's been playing me this entire time." I look up at him, and he's watching me like he's waiting for me to break down. Honestly, I'm not too far off. "The phone calls, the break-ins at my apartment… the murder in the alley that night at the restaurant."

"Break-ins?" he asks suddenly. "What break-ins?"

"I'd convinced myself it was all in my imagination," I say softly. "Now I know better."

"That wasn't it, Stella," he says reluctantly, and somehow I get the feeling that I haven't heard the worst of it.

"What else could there be?" I ask.

"The kid said he kept talking about this cop, and how she was going to have to choose between him and Mac."

"Choose?" I ask, horrified. "What the hell does he mean?"

"I don't think I want to know," he says anxiously.

"Something tells me we won't have a choice."

-----

Back at my apartment, I hear the commotion before I get close enough to see anything. Flack isn't with me this time, but I know that there's a room full of people just a feet away who are all going to be demanding explanations. I lean against the wall just outside the door, as yet unwilling to propel myself through it. I hear Danny's loud cursing and semi-empty threats against the person who did this to me, and I hear Hawkes quietly posing theories. Lindsay sighs tiredly, and wonders aloud how I'm doing.

_Not good, Lindsay, _I think dejectedly. _Not good._

Finally I walk through the door and all motion stops as they realize that I've joined them. Lindsay is kneeling down and tucking all the pictures into a paper folder that she'll later log into evidence, and it's not hard to notice the sympathy on her face. Danny's mouth is set in a grim line but his eyes are cool and direct, telling me without words that he's ready to start swinging as soon as I sound the bell. A few feet away is Hawkes, observing me with his warm doctor's eyes. Angell is here, too, watching over the rest of the group. Her hands are on her hips and her eyes are alert, surveying the damage. I appreciate them all more than I can say for being here, and I don't know exactly how to begin what I need to tell them. No words come as they all stare on, and I'm not sure what to do until Lindsay stands from the floor and walks directly over to me. I start to cast my eyes down, ashamed of keeping all this from one of the people I consider a close friend, but then her arms go around my neck in a fierce hug and I can't help but return it.

"Are you alright?" she asks against my ear.

"Yeah," I lie. "I'm fine."

She pulls away and gives me a wan smile that tells me there's no doubt in her mind that I'm not doing nearly as well as I proclaim. I tentatively meet the gazes of Angell, Danny, and Hawkes and find them all just as sympathetic. Something tells me that I should have told them everything from the beginning, and that I may have compromised all their trust in me out of silly pride.

"I'm sure you're all wondering what this is," I start, my voice even and slow. "I wish to God that I'd felt I could tell you before now, but for some reason I didn't. I'm sorry, but it's the way things turned out."

"Who did this, Stella?" Danny asks heatedly. "We want to get the son of a bitch."

I smile at his fervor, and try to keep the tears I feel building out of my voice.

"His name is Raphael Benevuto," I start, finding that it's easier to tell them than I thought. "I've been working undercover to catch him for the last few weeks. He killed James Corelli, and it's his fingerprints that were on the murder weapon."

"Undercover?" Hawkes asks, "For the NYPD?"

"Unofficially," I reply. "Some of his cases come back to us, but I've been working with a member of the Marine military police."

"Taylor," Danny supplies, fitting the pieces together.

"That's right. We've been getting closer to Raphael for weeks now, but now Mac's gone missing," I tell them. "I have every reason to believe that it's Raphael who has him, but we're not sure. He's our best lead at the moment… our only lead."

"What can we do?" Angell asks sternly. "Name it."

"I don't know where to start," I say, frustrated and I know it's the truth. "None of the evidence you get here will lead you back to him. He'll have sent one of his lackeys to do it for him, and he'll have a solid alibi. He's gotten too good at getting away with terrorizing people."

"Then what else is there?" Lindsay asks, "We don't even have enough to get a warrant against him. Could we question him?"

"He'd lawyer up faster than we could get him to talk," I reply, imagining him laughing at me through the two-way glass of our interrogation rooms. The vision makes me sick.

"I could bring him in for one of the other cases," Angell offers. "With a history like his, it wouldn't be hard to find something."

"No," I agreed, "It wouldn't."

"So what do we do?" Danny asks. "Just tell me where to go and I'm there."

"I have an idea," I say before realizing that I've barely thought it out. "But I'm not sure if it would work. I'd rather go alone, just in case it doesn't."

"Are you out of your mind, Stella?" Angell cries suddenly, taking the rest of us by surprise. "If you think a plan might not work, you take back-up. End of story. You don't go there alone and hope everything works out for the best. That's ridiculous."

"I don't want anyone else to get hurt," I say vehemently. "This is my mistake. No one else is going to pay for it."

"I'm not letting you go alone," Angell tells me and I see for just a second why she and Flack get along so well. They're both stubborn to a fault.

"I don't need your permission," I say, meeting her gaze head-on.

"I'll go with you," Lindsay interrupts and I see Danny open his mouth in rebuttal before quickly closing it. I start to turn her down, but something in her eyes stops me. "Please, let me. Danny and Sheldon are going to be busy enough cleaning this place up. Jess and I can make sure nothing else goes wrong."

"We'll all feel better if someone's with you," Hawkes says quietly, always the voice of calm reason. "And I'm sure Flack would too, as he's not here to speak up for himself."

"Don would be yelling and locking her up," Angell interjects, "Not figuring out who's going with her."

"In any case," Hawkes continues, "You need back-up, Stella. End of story."

"Okay," I say, looking over all their concerned faces. I realize that if it was anyone else on this team, I'd be just as adamant over their safety. "Okay."

"I'll go with Stella," Lindsay says, looking at Angell. "We'll go in her car, and you can hang back in case something happens and we need you."

Angell nods.

"Deal."

"I guess the good doctor and I will hold down the fort, so to speak," Danny observes and I spare him a smile. "Oh, no, don't feel sorry for me. There's dignity in hanging back."

"You just keep telling yourself that," Angell comments and Hawkes laughs.

We take a moment for Lindsay to collect her things and hand them to Danny, and then we're out the door, headed down to my car. My revolver is at my hip and Angell gives Lindsay her spare, just in case. Lindsay and I take the lead, and Angell is close behind in an unmarked sedan. The load is just as crowded as it always is, and the tension is palpable as we weave in and out of the unassuming traffic. I can't help the heavy thumping of my heart, and I think Lindsay knows it. Raphael's house is almost an hour away, and there's a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me we don't have much time to lose.

**A/N: I wanted Angell to have a bigger part in the end of this story, partly in tribute because I'm very upset that they've killed her. =( I'm sad, and trying not to lose my ever-loving mind over the finale. Gah! I love finales, and yet I hate them. This means we have to wait until effing September to find out what happens. Am I wrong?**


	26. Use Your Love

**Author's Note:**

**Gah! Sorry again for the wait. There I went saying that I would update faster, and it didn't happen. =( My bad. Anyway, here we go. Thanks to Lily Moonlight, the world's most wonderful beta. **

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

"**Use Your Love"**

"Where were you last night?" Lindsay asks me as we drive out of town, the sudden question taking me by surprise. Obviously she notices my reaction, because she's quick to offer rationalization for her own curiosity. "Well, you wouldn't have stayed home. Would you?"

I look over, about to defend myself, before sighing.

"I was with Mac," I say simply, as yet unwilling to elaborate. "He was there when I came home and found my apartment… like that."

"You care about him," she says and there's no room in her tone for me to pretend that it was a question. "I could hear it in your voice."

"I'm starting to get the feeling that I'm easy to read," I say, keeping my eyes on the road in front of me. The wheel is solid beneath my fingertips, and it feels a little like an anchor when I have little else to hold onto.

"No, you're not. Danny's still clueless if it makes you feel any better," she offers and we both laugh. "But then again he rarely knows anything first, so I'm not sure how great an example that is."

"Flack already knows," I say idly, weaving through traffic, "I never wanted him to, not on any real level, but after a while he didn't give me much of a choice. I could either tell him everything or have the whole thing go up in flames."

"He was really worried," she tells me, "We all were."

"I know," I reply solemnly. "And I really am sorry. I wish I could have told you everything from the start, but I thought it was safer for everyone this way." I give a bitter laugh that sounds nothing like me. "Obviously, that didn't really work out the way I planned."

"Things like this rarely do," she says in a voice that's far wiser than her years. Lindsay's had her own share of tragedy in her short life, and it's easy to forget that when she's so quick to smile all these years after the event. In the end she checks the mirror for Angell, whose car we can see a few minutes behind our own, and offers me a comforting smile.

"So," she starts, clearing her throat, "Where are we going?"

"Raphael's house," I answer and my voice sounds tired.

"Do you think he'd really keep Mac there?" she asks. "At home?"

"No, I don't think he would," I reply honestly, "But it's the best idea I have until Flack and the rest of the guys can turn something up. If nothing else, the family knows me and they might be able to tell me where he went. I asked Jess to hang back a little, in case they make her for a cop."

"The family knows you?" Lindsay asks incredulously, temporarily abandoning the view outside her window to give a look that's nothing short of shock. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Over a month now," I say, thinking that it's actually been closer to two. It feels like a lifetime. The next words out of my mouth were going to be apologies, excuses, but Lindsay stops me.

"I'm surprised Flack hasn't ripped all his hair out by now, worrying about you," she says and we both spare a moment to laugh at the image that would present.

"Oh, he came close," I say, remembering the frustrated way he ran his hand through his hair when I told him the whole story. "He and Mac almost killed each other in my apartment one night when he came over and found me with him. They had some ridiculous macho showdown and wouldn't listen to a thing I said."

Lindsay laughs loudly, and I laugh right along with her. For a few moments—just a few precious seconds—it feels like the rest of the world isn't spinning violently out of control. We're just two friends, talking about our lives and the men who inhabit them.

"Who won?" she asks, her face flushing with giggles.

"I don't know who won, but I definitely lost," I say, recalling throwing them both out of the apartment and seething in their absence. "I was so mad I couldn't see straight."

"I would have loved to see that," she says wistfully and I sigh.

"I'm not sure you would. It was ugly," I tell her honestly, "No, really. It was one for the books. You wouldn't believe what it was like to put up with them."

"He's been good for you," she remarks and I feel the corner of my mouth turn up in the semblance of a smile. "Mac, I mean. We've all noticed. I knew something was different the last few weeks. You seemed, I don't know, more together. Calmer than I've ever seen you and that really says something about a woman who's rarely calm."

"He's stable," I say, unaware that I'd even felt like launching into this kind of conversation, "I can rant and rave all night, but he's always so calm. I don't know how many times I've threatened to shoot him, and he sticks around." I smile and switch lanes. "There's something about him that just makes you want to trust him with anything and everything. I don't know what it is, but I was making leaps of faith with him that I wouldn't have done with anyone else. I trusted him after just a few days, when it usually takes months or years to gain any form of my trust."

"Do you love him?" she asks quietly and for a moment all I hear is the roar of blood in my ears and the sounds of surrounding traffic. Had I even considered that? Could I love him? The fear that bubbles up in the question's wake is almost enough to stun me into silence. Lindsay gives me the headspace I need, letting me feel my way around for the correct answer.

"I might," I say finally. She says nothing while my mind whirls, straining to land on any kind of decision. When it does, my jaw drops.

"Oh, my God," I breathe, my voice softer now than I think it's ever been. "I do." I look over at her, stunned, and she only stares back with a knowing smirk. "I love him."

"Wow," Lindsay says breathlessly, sympathizing with one of the biggest realizations I've ever come to in my life. For a long time, maybe too long, I let myself believe that I couldn't fall in love again… not really, anyway. Dealing with the heartbreak and misery Frankie left me, I was afraid it would ever be worth trying.

"Yeah," I reply absently, nursing my fear, "Wow is right."

"We'll get him back," she says, striking to the heart of my unease without even realizing it. Or maybe she does. "Don't worry, okay? You've got the whole team working on finding him, and you know we don't give up."

"Yeah," I say, reaching over to lightly pat her knee, "I know. It means a lot; especially after I kept this from you all for so long."

"We care about you, Stella," she says simply, as though that was explanation enough. "You had your reasons, even if it doesn't seem like it with everything else that's going on right now. I've always trusted your logic more than almost anyone else's, and I stand by that. Secrets or no secrets."

I laugh, and it sounds suspiciously teary.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you guys," I say honestly, ignoring the sudden constriction in my chest that tells me tears are well on the way. "I'm so lucky to have you all."

"It goes both ways, sister," she says and grips my hand for a second. I feel her thumb run over the ring on my right hand, and she makes a low whistling sound. "Wow, this is gorgeous. Where did you get it?"

"Mac gave it to me, actually," I tell her and she makes an astounded face, "I know, right? He's got great taste."

"He really does."

"Yeah, it's actually useful, too," I say and then my brain stumbles onto something I've forgotten in all this time. I slam on the brakes, almost sending Lindsay into the dashboard, and I listen to the cars around us begin their symphony of raucous honking.

"What's the matter?" Lindsay asks, stunned. "What's wrong?"

"The ring," I say, and then punch the gas again, weaving out of this lane to prepare to make a U-turn. "Mac gave it to me as a panic button."

"What?"

"I turn the ring twice and it sends coordinates to a handheld device," I say quickly, paying my fellow drivers very little courtesy as I speed through traffic. "He gave it to me so he could get to me if something happened. If I can get the ring to Adam in the lab and we activate it, we might be able to get a trace on the device and find out where he is." I look over at her, my eyes manic. "We'll be able to use the device in the opposite direction and find him."

"Oh, my God," Lindsay says and reaches into the floorboard for her purse. "That should work, unless Raphael's moved him too far outside the device's reach. Since it's still relatively early, I would say that we have a good chance. I'll call Angell and tell her to follow us back to the lab."

"Hold on," I instruct her as I push the gas pedal even harder against the floor and she's pressed further back against her seat.

_Hang on, Mac, _I think as I listen to Lindsay's conversation with Angell. _I'm on my way._

-----

I'm instantly aware of two things when I crawl out of unconsciousness. The first is the smell of damp earth, and the second is my inability to move my arms or legs. Harsh ropes chaff my wrists as I strain against them, but my head is still too fuzzy for me to make any realistic escape attempt. Something tells me it wouldn't have gotten me very far, anyway. I'm currently experiencing an entire new level of exhaustion, born out of what I'm sure is a mild concussion. When my brain catches up to my surroundings, I go through a quick jolt of panic to realize that I may very well have been buried alive. Of course the fear is unfounded: I'm sitting up—in a chair, I'm pretty sure—and I don't feel any loss of oxygen.

"You slept longer than I expected," a voice informs me from a few feet away. I don't have to lift my head or open my eyes to know that it's Raphael speaking to me. I do anyway, and find myself in the jungle. Plants surround me as far as my abused eyes can see, and I breathe in the scent of moist soil.

_Greenhouse_, I instantly think for all the good it does me. My mouth tastes like warm copper—blood, obviously—and I feel pressure around my eye that I'm sure will be transforming into a bruise in the near future. A similar pressure is raging around the bridge of my nose.

"I didn't have much choice, did I?" I reply bitterly and I'm given a short bark of laughter in return. The world is starting to clear up around me, and instantly my chest constricts when I remember that I've left Stella alone. She was in bed when I left my apartment, and now I have no idea what he's done with her.

"Where is she?" I ask heatedly, not bothering to hide the rage in my voice. "Where's Stella?"

"So concerned for her, all the time," he says, clucking his tongue at me. "Stella is a capable woman—you should trust her more."

"It's not Stella that I'm having a hard time trusting," I seethe and I can feel his smug smile from across the room.

"No," he says simply, "Of course it isn't."

"She's safe, right?" I ask, "She can't play your little game if you've done something to her."

"Astute observation, Staff Sergeant," he remarks, obviously amused. "And a correct one, at that."

"So, what do we do now?" I ask, bitter laughter rising up the back of my throat like bile. "Just hang out?"

"Stella will be here soon enough," he tells me. "She's a very intelligent woman. It won't take her long to figure out where we are." He pauses. "If, of course, she cares to find you in the first place."

I'd love to believe that she's out looking for me right now, but on the other hand I'm hoping she stays as far away from this as humanly possible. No matter what happens tonight, nothing is ending well. Even the best-case scenario held significant risks, and I'm completely unwilling to consider what could happen if the worst should come to pass. I know, Stella, though. She won't be leaving this alone, no matter how hard I wish she would. It was what threw us together in the first place, but I'm praying now that it won't be what rips us apart.

"How is this going to go?" I ask, the question simply to pass the time rather than to gain any valuable information. "She's just going to walk in here and pick one of us?" Raphael nods. "That easy, huh?"

"The most seemingly difficult decisions to make in life should actually be the easiest," he says, reminding me of a fortune cookie I got once. I think I threw it away.

"I don't guess you're planning on telling her that we're both going to die if she picks me," I mention offhandedly, as though it was a minor detail in the big picture.

"What would be the fun in that?" he asks with a ridiculous grin. "Stella knows by now what I'm capable of. She's not stupid enough to believe she can come in here, collect her lover, and walk out alive." He sends me a very pointed look, and I'm reminded of every one of his victims. "Fear is a powerful weapon, should you choose to wield it correctly."

"You don't know her like I do," I point out, purely from spite, and I watch his eyes flare with anger. "Stella doesn't do anything out of fear. She wouldn't stay with you no matter what you do to me, or what you threaten to do to her."

"Then she'll die," he tells me, and there's nothing in his voice that resembles doubt. His dark eyes seem to glow with mania as he approaches me, his face only inches away from my own. "I'll slit both your throats, one after the other, and I'll bury you in my uncle's garden."

I stare straight ahead, unblinking, and act as a witness to this minor explosion.

"They'll drag your miserable corpses up from the ground years from now, after I'm happily retired, and no one will give one flying fuck about who you were," he seethes, almost foaming at the mouth, "You won't. Even. Exist."

"Is that what you're afraid of, Raphael? Nonexistence?" I observe calmly, belying my own temper. I know it's the truth when he flinches. "That's it, isn't it? You're so afraid that no one will ever know you existed that you have to hurt everything and everyone around you, and burn your name into their memory."

"Shut up," he whispers, blinking furiously. I watch his control begin to fray, his façade coming apart at the seams. Had he always been so unstable? Something tells me he has, for his entire life.

"When Stella and I walk out of here," I whisper and he winces as though I'd backhanded him, "We're going to forget you ever existed. We're going to go on with our lives, and you'll be nothing more than a nightmare we forget as soon as the sun comes up."

"No."

"Yes," I insist, taking no small amount of pleasure in the panic-stricken look that deforms his features, "You'll be nothing."

He finally cracks under the pressure, a stick with too much pressure on either side, and he roars before putting his hands on my shoulders and pushing me backwards. I fly back and hit the cool stone floor, the back of the chair breaking under me. My hands are still tied behind my back, and I have no opportunity to block the kicks he sends into my rib cage. They knock what little air I have left out of me and send my stomach reeling in the wake of the trauma. I fight the urge to cry out as Raphael unleashes his madness, sobbing into the otherwise still air. He's rambling frenzied words that I can't make out, but he stops after a few seconds. I'm struggling to stay conscious, and I realize just a little too late that I may have made a mistake in antagonizing.

From the look in his eyes, Raphael is no longer human.

**A/N: This was a shorter chapter, I know, but I hope there was enough going on to make up for it. =D**


	27. Hide and Seek

**Author's Note:**

**I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. It's been a month since last I updated, which is despicable of me. Honestly, a rather negative and spiteful review for another story of mine got me down, and it gave me a horrible case of writer's block. It's taken me a ridiculous amount of time, but I'm happy to report that this is the next chapter. I'm already part of the way through the next chapter. So, if you've all forgiven my negligence, I would love to get the next chapter up ASAP.**

**Endless thanks to Lily, who did her very best to get me out of my rut and keep me going. I may have given up if not for her wisdom. =D**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

"**Hide and Seek"**

The lab feels crowded and busy even with the majority of the criminalists out in the field. Lab technicians rush from station to station, hoping to find answers soon enough to make a difference in whatever case they happen to be working on. Some of them probably know that it's already too late, but they do it anyway. As much as it pains me to say it, that particular circumstance happens far more often than it should. But we keep on, hoping that in the end we'll have more successes than failures. A lot of the people rushing around me are here out of blind hope and little else.

In that respect, we're here for some of the same reasons. It's blind hope that I'm clinging to now, praying with every fiber of my being that I'm able to save Mac just as efficiently as he's saved me. Lindsay and Angell are on either side of me as we march, both of them looking fierce. Sid is speaking with another technician when we enter the hallway, but he stops immediately once he sees us.

"Ladies, you look very formidable," he says with a calm smile, "I feel sorry for whomever you're here to see."

"Adam," I answer shortly. "Is he here?"

"He's in his workspace, I'm sure," he says, "What's the young man done?"

"Nothing," Lindsay is quick to say. "We just need him to trace something for us. It's urgent..." Her words trail away as Angell and I rush on, quickly leaving her behind to smooth over our rough impression.

Adam Ross is standing beside a long white table, white wires leading from his ears. His head moved in time with the song, and any other time I would have smiled at this behavior. Adam was one of the dearest guys I've ever worked with, but today I need him undistracted and on his best game. He must have noticed the stern—if distressed—look on my face as Angell and I look at him, because he jumps a bit and yanks out his earphones.

"Stella," he says distractedly in greeting, "Detective Angell."

"Adam, we need your help," I say quickly, forgoing all pleasantries. I remove Mac's ring from my hand and set it on the table between us. "There's a tracking device in that ring. Is there any way to trace it backwards?"

He blinked. "What?"

"This ring is a tracking device," I repeat. "If I turn it on, can you use it to find the device it transmits its signal to?"

"Only one way to find out," he replies and grabs the tiny piece of jewelry. "Do you know how far it can send the signal?"

"No idea."

"We'll see what happens, then," he says and sits down at his microscope. "If it's too far out of range, this might not work."

"Just do what you can," Angell says and places a steady hand on my shoulder. She smiles over at me. "How long is this going to take?"

"Depends on the complexity of the circuits," he says, assembling his tools, "But it's going to take at least an hour. Maybe more."

I turn away, fighting the urge to swear.

Two and a half hours later, Adam cries out from his microscope and I jump out of my chair. Lindsay jerks and stands up with me, anxious after so much waiting. Angell left the lab over an hour ago, meeting up with Flack to do whatever they can with the precious few witnesses we have. I spoke to him just a few minutes ago, and he'd made it perfectly clear not to expect much. With every minute that ticks by on the clock, I feel like I'm getting further and further away from Mac. There's no doubt in my mind that time is quickly running out, and I need a direction.

"What?" Lindsay asks breathlessly. "What is it?"

"I've connected the main circuit to the computer," he says hurriedly, turning the larger screen on. "As long as the device that receives the signal is within a few miles of here, we should be able to narrow it down to a one-block radius."

"Oh, my God," I sigh gratefully, already thinking of offering Adam my first born for this success. "Okay, do I just turn it on? How does this work?"

"Just do whatever you do to send the signal," he instructs and delicately hands me the ring. It feels much more fragile when it's connected to a computer that's going to save Mac's life, and I handle it accordingly. Using my forefinger and thumb, I turn the ring twice and hear a small crack of electricity. Instantly the computer goes haywire, emitting a series of cries that make me jump out of my skin. From the look on Adam's face, though, I can tell that whatever contraption he's constructed is working. My breath falls out of me in a harsh gasp, and Lindsay smiles over at me.

We're close.

The three of us watch, riveted, as the red circle starts out as an amorphous blob encompassing the better part of Manhattan and slowly shrinks. It's narrowing down the right location, moving slowly but surely. My eyes are glued to the screen, begging it to go faster. Wherever that damned little dot happens to land will be where we find Mac, and even one more second feels like an eternity when I'm waiting to see if he's still alive. We're all completely quiet and motionless, watching as Adam's program does its job. Just as the dot shrinks to the comparative size of one city block, it shudders and disappears.

"What happened?" I ask frantically. "Where did it go?"

"Something disconnected the signal," he says distractedly, examining the small piece of jewelry and the wires that connected it to the computer. "It's not our end. Everything is still attached."

"So what happened?"

"Someone on the other end must have disconnected it," he replies. "I can't trace it if it's not turned on."

"Did you get anywhere with the trace?" I ask, feeling Lindsay's hand resting on my back. "How close did you get it?"

"Within a square mile," he says sadly, obviously waiting for some sort of punishment for failing. "Maybe you recognize the neighborhood?"

"It's a neighborhood?" Lindsay interjects.

"Yeah, right outside the city," he says. "Fairly close to the Hamptons, I think. It's money, anyway."

"Oh, my God," I say, stunned. "Lindsay, that's where Raphael lives! He just took him home!" My words make me cringe. Of course my own instincts had told me to go there first, but for once in my life I'd ignored them. As a result, Raphael has a three-hour head start and I'm left fumbling in his wake.

"But for how long?" Lindsay asks and I reach for my blazer and the gun sitting on the chair.

"Only one way to find out," I reply and single-mindedly head for the door.

On a whim I shout my thanks to Adam over my shoulder, and I hear Lindsay's footsteps right behind me. Everyone steps out of our way as we charge down the hall, headed for the elevator that I know is going to feel painstakingly slow. I consider taking the stairs, but even I'm not that crazy. Besides, after the pauses for breathers the elevator would be faster anyway.

Once the doors have closed on us, Lindsay is on the phone with Angell to let her know where we're going. She reads off Raphael's address, and then hangs up the phone with the promise to keep an eye out for trouble. Despite my nerves, I smile over at Lindsay.

"I suppose I should be flattered that you're all so protective of me," I observe, smirking.

"You should be," she replies. "It proves we care about our fearless leader. Otherwise we'd just let you get killed."

I laugh, because she's right.

-----

I've always believed that the human tolerance of pain can go to the extreme, until the lines blur and you're barely aware of anything. This is why victims of violence disassociate—they send their minds elsewhere while their bodies deal with the torture. It's a survival instinct that keeps us going even in the worst situations. Now, it's my turn. I'm flying faster to this particular edge of consciousness with every blow Raphael sends to my torso. The pointed toes of his shoes have left more than a few bruises in their wake, as well as what feels like a cracked rib or two. He's made a point of staying away from my head, which I can only assume is because he wants me to be aware of my surroundings. In that sense, he's succeeded. I'm perfectly aware of every move he makes, and every pitiful sound that escapes me. He's mumbling incoherently, but something tells me I don't want to know what he's actually saying.

He stops suddenly, and I send up a silent prayer of thanks for whoever happened to be looking out for me up there. I look up at Raphael, who's covered in sweat and looking around, confused. A trickle of blood is coming from the corner of his mouth; he must have bit his tongue while he was beating the shit out of me.

"What is that?" he asks, turning in frantic circles that remind me of a dog chasing his tail. "Do you hear that?"

It takes me a second, but I do hear it. The ringing I thought was only in my head was actually coming from my hip. It doesn't take long for my captor to arrive at the same conclusion.

"What the hell is this?" he asks, taking the small black box from my belt clip. The top of the device was flashing bright red, and I'm sure there were a series of numbers on the display. My heart jumps into my throat, knowing exactly what it meant for that to be receiving a distress signal. Something's happened to Stella.

"Is this what I think it is?" Raphael asks me and I don't offer a response. My mind is far more occupied with devising a plausible escape and getting to Stella as soon as I can. "It is, isn't it? A fucking GPS." He smiles down at me, a dark gleam in his empty eyes. "Well, at least we know that Stella is on her way. It won't be long—it's good to know. But we can't make it too easy for her, can we?"

With that he throws the small box down, barely three inches from my face. With one fierce blow, he crushes it beneath the heel of his Italian loafer.

"Just a matter of time now, Marine," he says gleefully. "We're almost done here."

-----

In over ten years as a cop, and over five as head of the New York Crime Lab, I can't remember a car ride taking more out of me. There's no singular crime scene in my memory that terrified me in the same way, or played more havoc on my nerves. My thoughts are legion and riotous, ranging from the euphoric best scenario to the damning worst. I'm driving like a lunatic off her meds, and Lindsay is hanging on for dear life and whispering desperate prayers under her breath. Angell and Flack have promised to meet us at the Benevuto household, but from the sounds of the traffic report I'm not expecting them anytime soon. They'll have an advantage with their sirens, but not enough.

I keep praying that Mac knows I'm on my way; that I'm coming for him. It takes up all my energy to wish his safety into being, completely unprepared for what's going to happen if I'm not fast enough. Normally, this isn't a problem for me. Hell, if anything I'm known to act a little faster than I need to. Now, though… now nothing is the same. My life has been turned upside down and looted for all its worth, leaving me empty-handed. Save, of course, for the one asset I never hoped to have again… love. Strangely, when it came right down to it, I prefer Mac over peace of mind any day. It's that thought that has me reaching our destination in just over half an hour, a personal record.

"So this is it?" Lindsay asks nervously, staring up at the large white house. "It doesn't look very menacing."

"No," I reply, "I guess it wouldn't. But this is the place."

We climb out of the car and I start down the walkway leading to the porch, moving quickly. I'm almost at a run within a second or two, convinced that the ground beneath my feet is hot coals rather than prettily arranged cobblestones. Lindsay keeps up with me, stopping just behind me when I reach the giant white door. The last time I was here, I was attending a family dinner. Now, it seems, I'm here to break up the party. I consider just breaking in, but the chances of one goon getting a little too trigger happy seems more than likely. Since the last thing I want is a gunshot wound, I tuck my badge in my back pocket and knock lightly on the door.

I hear voices and some shuffling, telling me without a doubt that someone is home. Finally, when the door creaks open, the face that greets me is probably the last I ever expected.

"Uncle Gino?" I ask, astounded, and then falter. "Uh, how are you?"

"Miss Stella!" he announces joyously, gracing both my cheeks with a kiss. He smells like expensive aftershave and potting soil; an interesting mixture for an interesting lunatic. "I kept asking my insensitive nephew when you would be joining us again."

"I'm sorry I haven't come sooner," I say, surprising myself with the polite small talk. "It's been a hectic couple of weeks."

"Of course it has been," he replies and turns his eyes to Lindsay, who's watching our exchange with a mixture of shock and awe. "Who's your pretty friend?"

"Uncle Gino, this is Lindsay," I say and the two shake hands. "We work together."

"Pleased to meet you," Lindsay says and then gives me a look as if to say, _What are you doing?_

"Gino, is Raphael here?" I ask solemnly and he looks up at me, his dark eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. For a moment I wonder if he has Alzheimer's, because he looks as though he's trying to remember who this Raphael is. Then his mouth curves into a mild frown and he shakes his head.

"Gino?"

"You're looking for your young man, aren't you?" he asks me, "The soldier."

"Oh, my God," Lindsay breathes and I steel myself.

"Is he here?" I ask, stunned. "Did Raphael bring Mac here?"

"Follow me," he says, shutting the giant front door behind him and shuffling ahead of us. Lindsay and I spare barely a second before following him.

At first we think that he's leading us out to our cars, but he makes a quick turn to the left and sneaks into the small pathway between the house and the hedge that separates it from the house next door. I can only suppose it leads to the backyard, but Gino stops short of the dark wood gate I see just a few feet ahead and Lindsay and I stop with him. He kneels in front of what looks like a cellar door, and takes a small antique-looking key out of his front pocket. It fits neatly into the padlock locking the cellar doors, and for a moment I'm panic-stricken when I consider what kind of bodies might have accumulated in this dark space over the seventy years this family has terrorized the majority of New York and Jersey. I think Gino sees my train of thought, because he cracks a smile and gives me a laugh.

"Don't you worry your pretty head," he says with an ambiguous wink. "We don't keep them this close to home. Not very prudent of us."

I do my best to laugh, but it comes out like a dry cough.

Wiping the splinters and rust marks from his hands, he pulls the cellar doors open wide and steps just inside. He reaches down and pulls up a lantern and an old pack of corroded matches, shaking the dust from the items. It takes him several tries—all of which send my heart rate through the roof—but a match finally catches and the lantern is lit. He gestures for Lindsay and me to follow him, and we exchange reluctant glances before stepping down into the cave-like cellar.

This cellar is dark and moist, and something similar to the pit in "Silence of the Lambs." Gino's lamp is the only light available to us, but it doesn't look as though there's much to see in the first place. There are a couple of jars of what—I hope—are fruit preserves, as well as a couple of gardening tools and lengths of used rope and hose. Despite my original theories on torture devices and shallow graves, this basement looks the exact same as almost any other I'd ever seen. There's another door at the far end, and I can only guess that this small passage is meant to be our destination.

"Just through here, ladies," he directs, pulling the rickety door open to reveal a long corridor. The floor of it is packed dirt, and the walls are moist earth surrounded by a layer of netting to keep them from collapsing. It's fairly obvious that it's taken Gino some time to work on this, and from the slightly ram-shackle method in which it's been designed it's fairly obvious to tell that it was Gino who did it.

"Did you build this yourself?" Lindsay whispers behind me, apparently reading my mind.

"Yes, ma'am, I did," he says with obvious pride in his voice, "It took me five years to finish, but it's mine. I dug the tunnel and everything myself, with these gnarled old hands of mine." He stops walking and turns back to us, his face highlighted by the eerie lamp. "Never know when you're going to need a good escape route, now do you?"

"No," I reply, "I guess you don't."

"It's just up here," he says, twisting back away from us and taking up his previous shuffling gait. "Just a few more feet, ladies."

As it turns out, Gino's version of "a few more feet" ends up being the better part of a block. The tunnel twists and turns for what feels like dozens of times, making the backyard seem deceptively large. Finally, though, we walk into another expanse of cellar. It is the same basic size as the room we started out in, though this one is filled with a few potted plants and much more gardening equipment. Shovels of all shapes and sizes are propped up against the walls, and fifty-pound bags of potting soil are piled in the corners. Steps on the far side lead to another door, which I suppose will lead us—once again—to the outside world.

We follow Gino up the steps and remain completely silent at his command. When he reaches for the padlock again, this one falls open without the use of a key. Before he can throw the door open I place my hand on top of his and he looks over at me, confused.

"What's wrong?"

"Uncle Gino, maybe you should hang back," I say as gently as I can. "Raphael… he can be dangerous if he gets angry."

"So can you, I would think," he observes with a grin. "But don't you worry about me, Miss Stella. I may be an old man, but I can take care of myself. It's my recommendation that your pretty friend here stay a little behind us, just in case my nephew is angrier than we think."

Lindsay nods. "I can do that."

I search her eyes for a moment, and then nod my consent. Lindsay will stay behind, as backup, while I go willingly into the lion's den.

"Are you ready?" I ask him and he just grins, pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand.

Crazy old uncle or not, I like this guy.

A second later he's pushing the doors open and letting them fall to the side, pouring sunlight into the otherwise dim cellar. The smell of foliage hits me hard; the scent heady and sweeter than I would have imagined it. Gino goes topside first, and then offers a hand to help me and Lindsay out of the hole. When we look around, the backyard of the Benevuto home—if that's where we are—looks like a jungle. Plants and trees are everywhere, in full bloom now that late spring has arrived. Gino motions to a vented building a few yards away, and I know that's where we're supposed to be. I hear Raphael's voice coming from it, mocking and demented. I look over at Gino, suddenly out of my mind with worry.

"He's alive," he says, "At least he was an hour ago, when I had to water my begonias."

I laugh and wrap my arms around his neck.

"Wh-what's that for?" he sputters, obviously taken aback.

"For helping us," I say, "Thank you."

"Well, it was nothing at all," he says, his face quickly flushing. "In any case, we have to get going. If something happens, you two know how to find your way back."

We both nod our understanding and then we move, Lindsay staying around the back of the greenhouse while Gino and I take the most obvious approach: the one and only door in or out of the tiny edifice. I take one deep breath and then place my hand on the knob, turning it with one swift motion. I storm inside, trying to pretend as though I'm supposed to be there. My eyes scan the room, taking in the eight-inch blade in Raphael's hands as well as the blood coming from the corner of Mac's mouth. He's slouched in the chair, breathing heavily. My heart jumps in my chest, elated.

He's still alive.


	28. Nothing Too Much, Just Outta Sight

**Author's Note:**

**I'll skip all apologies about this taking so long after I promised a quick update... I'm sure you're all tired of them. ;) In any case, here it is. Many thanks to Lily, who was unbelievably helpful. There's only one more chapter after this one. It's finished already, so I'll probably post it by the end of the week. (For real this time.)**

**This chapter gets a bit violent and there's some language. I didn't feel like it deserved an M rating, though, so I'm just warning you beforehand. **

**Thanks to all of you who boosted my confidence in your reviews... I can't tell you how much of a difference it made. **

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

"**Nothing Too Much (Just Out of Sight)"**

"Raphael," I say loudly, grabbing the attention of both men in the room. "What the hell is all this?"

He turns around, mildly shocked, before smiling.

"Stella, darling," he says loudly, "How I've missed you."

"You saw me last night," I say, forcing a laugh. In answer he steps away from Mac, knife still in hand, and comes to stand in front of me. His eyes are wide and seemingly happy to see me, but there's nothing really behind them. Totally blank, and truly terrifying when I consider the wide knife gripped against his palm.

He wraps his arms around me as though we've been apart for years and my breath catches when I feel the cool blade press innocently against the small of my back. He breathes deep, holding me, and I stare across the room at Mac, who's regarding me with bruised and cloudy eyes. The sight almost breaks me in two, but now's not the time. I stare hard at him, doing my best to send whatever message I can, but his gaze only lingers for a brief moment before returning to the floor.

"I'm glad you're here," Raphael finally says, pulling away from me.

"Why?" I ask, "So I can watch you make an idiot out of yourself?"

This obviously takes him aback.

"What?" he stammers, "What do you mean?"

"Raphael, look what you've done," I continue, slipping into a character I hadn't realized I'd invented, "You've kidnapped a Marine! And it looks to me like you beat the living hell out of him, so that'll probably come across as attempted murder." I grab his shoulders. "What the hell would possess you to do that?"

"_What_?" he repeats as though he had trouble understanding me the first time.

"You heard me," I reply, "You didn't think this through."

"It's true, boy," Uncle Gino says from just beside the doorway, reminding us both that he's still present, "You should have known better."

"Shut up, old man," he says insolently and turns back to me with wide, frenetic eyes. "You don't mean that, Stella. You can't mean that."

"I absolutely do," I say sternly, "Your heart may have been in the right place, but your head wasn't."

"I did this for you, Stella! Can't you see that?" He clears his throat, and uses the heel of his hands to wipe at his eyes. "I know this wasn't my best idea, but I had to prove myself. You have to know that I did this as _proof! _That I love you!"

"I know, I know," I say, pushing dark hair out of his eyes and ignoring the sickening curl of my stomach when I touch him, "I know you do. We'll fix this, okay? We'll fix it."

"Yeah," he says absently, taking a shuddering breath, "We'll fix it."

"But you have to let him go," I offer, pushing my luck, and then doubt my choice as soon as his nostrils flare and he backs away from me as though burned.

"No!" he cries, "You're choosing him, aren't you?"

"Did I say that?" I ask loudly, watching him panic and start to break down. "No, I didn't. I'm here for you, aren't I?"

He only looks away, making strangled breathing noises.

"Raphael, look at me."

"What?"

"_Look at me,_" I instruct and he complies. "You've been sloppy, and there have been witnesses. If we let him go, it's his word against mine."

"You're a cop," he says bitterly, ignoring its relevance, and I nod.

"Yeah, I am, but none of it matters," I tell him, "Because we're going to fix this. You and me, okay? They're going to listen to me—I'm in charge. I can cover up a kidnapping a hell of a lot easier than I can cover up a murder. You have to understand that."

"Yeah, I get it," he says, swiftly going from emotional and frantic to calm and in control, "You're a good woman, Stella. You'll take care of me."

"You're damn right I will," I say with a smile and pat his cheek. "Now cut the ropes off and I'll get him out of here. I need you to clean up all this, and burn whatever proof he was here. Burn everything, okay? Even your clothes."

"I can do that," he says, exhaling loudly. "You'll be okay on your own?"

"I can help the girl," Gino offers, "I know what to do."

"See? I'm all taken care of," I say and smile.

He replies by walking to Mac and tapping his face in an effort to bring him back to consciousness. Slowly he shakes his head and looks up at me. For a moment I can only think that he looks like hell, and then I realize that his eyes have cleared and he looks entirely lucid. I resist the urge to jump for joy, but I highly doubt it would go well with my cover. Mac, it seems, has a few more surprises left in him.

"You're going to go with her," Raphael tells him with a smug grin. "But you didn't win this one. If this way hadn't been easier, I would have killed you. I have to admit that I like knowing I won this particular game with you… I'll probably be winning one more in the near future, seeing as it was your DNA found on the knife that killed Jimmy." He chuckles. "It's the perfect crime, really. You really should be more careful the next time you decide to leave your weapons lying around at crime scenes."

Mac says nothing but the muscle in his jaw clenches, and I know he's really angry. I suddenly worry that he's not going to realize that I'm playing Raphael, or that he's going to fight me once Gino and I get him out of the greenhouse. I'm taking a chance, I know, but this seems to be all I have at my disposal. I watch as Raphael reaches behind Mac and uses the blade to cut his ties loose, and I can't believe my good luck when he forces Mac to his feet. Mac takes a few tentative steps, presumably fighting the bells and whistles I can only assume are going off in the back of his head, and then he looks back at Raphael.

"There's no such thing as the perfect crime, you son of a bitch," he seethes, his voice dangerously low.

"As far as I can tell," Raphael replies coolly, "I've managed close to twenty."

"Just shut up," I say, reaching out and grabbing Mac roughly by the arm and yanking him toward me. "You two have had plenty of time for your little pissing contest. The sooner I get him out of here, the better. Raphael, you have work to do if I remember correctly."

"Yeah, I'm on it," he says and pulls out an ornate silver lighter.

I keep Mac in my grip, saying every prayer of thanks in every language my mind can get its hands on, and I turn away from Raphael. I send Gino a look of utter disbelief, and he returns it with equal fervor. For a moment it looks like we're going to get out of here scot-free, but I should really know better than to expect that kind of thing. My hand is on the doorknob, turning it, and then it's wrenched out of my grasp. I'm pushed backward in a flurry of movement that takes all of us by surprise, and then suddenly I'm looking into Lindsay's panicked eyes. It doesn't take me much longer to notice the arm around her neck or the long barrel of a gun against her temple. The man holding it makes my heart lie painfully still for a moment or two, mainly because by this time I'd forgotten all about him.

Kevin La Salle stares pointedly at me over the rims of his lopsided silver glasses, and I watch as he continues to breathe heavily in Lindsay's ear. I feel Mac tense beneath my grip, and I can almost hear his thoughts screeching to a grinding halt when confronted with the two intruders. Lindsay is struggling against La Salle and she looks utterly horrified, no doubt wondering who this man is and how he's managed to sneak up on us so effectively. I suddenly regret dragging Lindsay into this, and something tells me that she's thinking the exact same thing.

"What the hell?" Gino swears from beside me and I completely sympathize.

"What's all this about?" I ask shakily. "What are you doing with her?"

"Yeah, that's a good point," Raphael adds from a few feet away. "I told you eight months ago not to bring your playmates here anymore."

"She's not one of mine," Kevin replies, staring longingly at Lindsay's honey-blonde hair. "Yet."

"Then who is she?"

"She was sneaking around outside when I came out of the house," he says and reaches into the pocket of Lindsay's jacket. My stomach clenches when I realize that he's discovered her shield. I realize now that it's her police-issue revolver that he's holding against her head.

"She's a cop," he tells the group and throws the badge down on the nearest table, landing it in a small pot of red flowers. Her handcuffs are next, and they follow the same route.

"Hey!" Gino cries, picking the badge and handcuffs out of his plants, "Be careful with my poppies." He tosses the items away, further down the table, and holds the potted flowers to his chest. "Vandals, the both of you."

"Someone was here to make an arrest," La Salle observes quietly, running one hand across her hair.

"Do not touch me," she seethes, flinching away from his touch. She looks over at Raphael, her eyes hard. "I'm not here with her. I'm working another case independently with the Feds… Organized Crime. If I'd known we had a dirty cop in the crime lab, I would have asked for more backup."

"Stella?" Raphael asks tentatively, ignoring Lindsay's story, "Do you know this girl?"

"No," I say firmly, holding my ground, "You just heard her say she was a Fed. How was I supposed to know her?"

"So that's a no?"

"I just said that, didn't I?"

"Somehow I doubt it," he says quietly, but I don't miss the anger simmering just below the surface. "I think she came right along with you. Otherwise, how would she have been able to get back here? Without crazy Uncle Gino showing her the way, it would have been impossible."

"I don't know," I say, feigning nonchalance, "Ask her."

"You betrayed me… tricked me," he says angrily, "Like I was some common blockhead you deal with every day." He looks up at me, startling me with the murderous rage in his dark eyes. "I trusted you, Stella. And this is how you repay me?"

I tilt up my chin, defiant despite my fear. He stares right back, and I know that any further argument would be a waste of my breath. He's made up his mind, and we're all going to die for it. Mac is standing just behind me, and it's now that he steps forward, out of my loosened grasp, and meets Raphael head on.

"Let them go," Mac says sternly.

Raphael laughs bitterly and says, "What's my motivation?"

"I'll stay in their place."

"I've already had my time with you, soldier," he replies smugly. "You're damaged goods. Sorry."

"I'm the one who started all this," Mac shouts angrily, "Let me finish it."

"Bargaining won't do you much good right now," he replies, "None of us are going anywhere."

"The entire NYPD knows where I am, Raphael," I say loudly, "You don't have a chance in hell of getting away with killing us all. Not without getting yourself killed with us."

"Except that we have all the weapons, and the one human weapon you have in your favor is severely limited in his range of motion at the moment," Raphael says coolly, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. "Honestly, Stella, you don't have much in your favor."

"Yeah, you know, except for the backup I have coming," I say sarcastically, taking more than a little comfort from that solid fact. There's a hell of a lot of hope in that statement, and I hold onto it like the lifesaver it is.

"Backup won't do you much good when you're dead," he points out and I give an involuntary shudder at the certainty of his words. He honestly believes them. "Something tells me the soldier won't last much longer anyway, and then Kevin's going to have his fun with your friend over there." He laughs. "And let's face it… Kevin's girls don't last very long, either."

"And me?" I ask stubbornly.

"You, Stella…" he muses, smiling, "You've meant the most to me in a long career of young, beautiful women. Obviously your death will stand upon some ceremony. We'll take our time." He smiles nostalgically, as though reminiscing on some dear memory, before facing me with his dead eyes. "Death, as I'm sure you know, is far more intimate than sex. Since we didn't have time for one, we'll have to doubly enjoy the other."

My lungs clamp shut and my heart goes into overdrive, effectively stopping any words I may have formed in response to this. I have the spontaneous thought that he's more interested in me than his other two hostages, but I'm not naïve enough to believe he'd be willing to let them go. In here, the situation is under his complete control. If he lets them go he'll have to worry about several outside factors. Since I know just how much he loves his control, it's highly unlikely that he would bother with my exchange.

That thought in mind, I lean back against Mac—not quite feigning the terror that's suffocating me—until I'm sure he can feel the small revolver lodged against my lower back. I feel his hand move under the back of my jacket, reaching for the weapon. Slowly, carefully, he removes it and uses my body to hide his movements as he shoves it into his own pocket. I can only hope that he'll have time to use it. He gives me a light tap on my hip to let me know it's safe to move. This all takes place in a matter of seconds, without anyone noticing but me and Mac. Gino is staring straight ahead, seemingly at nothing, which worries me. La Salle's attention has been focused entirely on Lindsay, who's beginning to struggle more fervently against him. The only thing Raphael seems to notice is the very real fear I'm sure is emblazoned across my face.

Looking at me like prey caught in his trap, he flashes a charming smile. He extends his hand to me as though offering a dance and I take it knowing that—for the moment—I have no other option. His hand is warm but damp and it makes my skin crawl to hold it in my own. He pulls me forward roughly, all the time staring me down with his dark eyes. Unable to counteract his force, I fall against his chest and try to step back only to find that he's using his other arm to keep me lodged against him. I'm caught. He brings my hand slowly up to his lips, just like he did on our dates, and presses a kiss to the top of it. All I can do is stare, ignoring the pounding of my own heart and the shallow breaths I can't seem to control.

"I'm going to miss you," he says softly as though we're lovers parting our ways. "We could have really had something, you know?"

Before I can think enough to form a reply, the sound of rattling glass catches my attention and diverts it away. We look up simultaneously to find that the window directly over our heads is shaking unsteadily in its pane. We're frozen in place, staring in confusion as its movements become more violent. No one dares move or take the smallest breath.

Raphael has time to exclaim, "What the…?" before one of the sides dips too low and the sheet of glass begins to fall.

My brain registers what's happening, but my body can't seem to do anything about it. Raphael's grip on my hand tightens as La Salle shouts a futile warning. I finally close my eyes, my body bracing itself for impact, when an arm goes around my waist and pulls me backward. Mac is still holding onto me when the glass crashes into Raphael with a sickening _crack_. It shatters around him as he falls to the ground, blood staining the crystalline shards.

We're all staring in shock for one long moment, watching large blood stains start to form across his torso. Jagged shards of glass extend from his body at awkward angles, and the ones that have fallen out have left angry wounds behind. The deep red blood looks stark and out of place on his slate gray business suit, and even more out of place on the unlined skin of his face as the lacerations began to open and bleed. The top of his head is misshapen—no doubt from the force of the blow—and none of us have any doubt that Raphael Benevuto, sadist and murderer, is dead.

"Holy shit," Kevin La Salle finally adds after a heavy silence.

"Come on," Mac says, taking my hand. "We've got to go."

I nod and look over at Lindsay, who takes advantage of her captor's stupor and slips out of his choke hold. La Salle starts wailing as we head for the door, but none of us seem to care. Mac draws the gun I gave him and releases the safety, taking a quick look on either side of the door before stepping outside. Lindsay follows him and I'm right behind them both. I sneak a look at Gino just before I escape, and the sight breaks my heart. His eyes are trained on his nephew's body, opened wide, and a pot of deep red flowers is still clutched to his chest. I give him a sorrowful look and offer him my hand, but he shakes his head and holds his flowers tighter.

"Uncle Gino, come on," I plead, "Come on. Let's go."

"Have to stay," he says absently, all the eccentric humor now gone from his voice, "You go on now, Miss Stella. Take care."

I try begging, but it doesn't work. I should have known it wouldn't. Finally Mac touches my arm and tells me that we need to get out before the rest of the family shows up. I nod my head in consent and wince as I leave Gino behind. I'm left to wonder what's going to happen to this sweet little lunatic if the family finds out that he helped us escape but then I'm running alongside Mac, headed for the cellar doors that got us here. Unfortunately, for the time being, my brain can't spare any more attention. Lindsay wrenches the doors open and climbs in ahead of us, scooping up Gino's lantern as she descends the scuffed concrete steps. Mac and I follow and take off down the makeshift tunnel.

At first we move quickly and silently, hoping to get to the other end of the tunnel without any further incident and without interruption. I have every intention of getting in my car and speeding away, most likely with a hospital in mind. I look over at Mac as we move, and it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to note his limp or the slight wheezing in his breath. I have the sudden paralyzing thought that a broken rib may have punctured a lung and I stop short, grabbing his arm and yanking him back to me. He winces and I think I hear a curse under his breath, but he stays with me. Lindsay hangs back as well, silently observing.

"What is it?"

"Are you okay?" I ask breathlessly, "You don't have any broken bones or anything, do you? No broken ribs or punctured lungs? Internal bleeding?"

I see him fight the urge to smile, but he shakes his head.

"No," he replies, "Nothing like that."

"You're sure?" I ask, but the question is pointless. We both know he's lying.

"Yeah, I'm sure," he says, "Now come on. We need to get out of here."

We take maybe five steps before the dim but unmistakable sound of gunfire reaches our ears. I tilt my head toward the sound—which could really only be coming from two directions—and I hear another short burst. I look over at Mac, and only one word comes to mind.

"Gino."

"Stella, don't!" Lindsay cries but it's too late. I'm already running back from where we came, ignoring Mac and Lindsay shouting for me to stop. It's not until I come closer to smelling fresh air that I realize the voice I hear isn't Gino's, and the gunshots aren't coming from the greenhouse… they're coming from underground. I hear Kevin La Salle cursing and gruffly shouting my name, and then another few gunshots reverberate off the damp dirt walls. Obviously, it doesn't take long for me to figure out that this isn't my best idea. My next idea—running like hell back in the direction of Mac and Lindsay—comes along a lot quicker.

Kevin La Salle is gaining distance on me a lot faster that I'm comfortable with, but it's not long until I hear Mac and Lindsay up ahead. They're running toward me, no doubt to collect me, but all it takes is one look at my frenetic expression to have them running in the opposite direction right along with me.

The tiny room at the end of the tunnel comes up faster than any of us anticipated, but the dying sunlight pouring in looks like heaven. La Salle's screams are getting louder and less intelligible, telling me with the utmost certainty that he's lost his grip on whatever composure he had to begin with. The three of us look at each other with identical dread in our eyes, and then we move. Lindsay goes up first, carefully setting Gino's lantern aside and climbing up the steps and out of the cellar. I'm halfway out when the gun goes off again and then Mac's hands are on my back, pushing me up into the light. I have time to turn around and offer him my hand before Kevin La Salle stampedes out of the tunnel and into the light, the shaking gun in his hand pointing directly at Mac's forehead. Mac replies by aiming my gun right back at him.

"You're out of ammo, La Salle," Mac says coolly, his eyes intense and focused. "I counted."

Kevin looks down, panicked, but doesn't dare check the magazine. I'm sure he has the very correct impression that as soon as he does, he's going down. Of course I counted right along with him, and La Salle's borrowed weapon should still have two rounds. But, since it's unlikely he's familiar with the gun, he has no idea. For all intents and purposes, he thinks he's out of ammunition. Mac, despite his injuries, has the very obvious higher ground. They both know it now; it's only a question of how soon Kevin concedes and relinquishes his weapon.

"Put it down," I say after a few long moments of silence, but neither of the men seems to acknowledge that I've spoken. "Kevin, I mean it. If you cooperate, we can help you."

I hear Lindsay on the phone in the background, calling for Angell and Flack to get here on the double. Judging by the sirens in the near distance, I would say that they're not far off now. From the look on Kevin's face, he can hear them too. His grip on the gun tightens and he shifts his feet nervously, his eyes never quite meeting his opponent's. Mac is steady and unmoving, hardly blinking with every second that passes. As the sirens get closer, Kevin gets more anxious. He doesn't speak, but his breathing is harsh and ragged. His eyes are wide and teary, and can't seem to focus on any one place.

"Listen to her, Kevin," Mac says, this time a little gentler, "She can help you."

"No one can help me," he scoffs and pulls the hammer back on Lindsay's gun. The sound seems to echo louder than it should, and Mac doesn't hesitate to mimic the action. Kevin murmurs something—an apology, I think—and then the silence is broken. His gun jerks up in my direction, and I freeze.

The sound of a gunshot penetrates the stillness and barely a second passes before the sound of another one takes its place. I catch Kevin's repentant gaze and I take in a quick breath, closing my eyes and preparing for the awful invasion of pain that I know is coming. Much to my surprise, it never does. I open my eyes tentatively, praying with every ounce of strength that I'm not going to wake up to a gaping hole in my abdomen, and I'm quick to find that I'm untouched. I'm about to celebrate, but I look down and suddenly I don't feel very celebratory. It's obvious that Mac got in the first shot, but I'm not sure who the second gunshot belongs to. Mac is still standing, so I'm left to pray that Kevin's shot missed both of us.

Kevin's gun falls from his hand and he presses his fingertips against the dark wound in his right shoulder. When his fingers come back bloody, his eyes roll up into his head and he collapses. It surprises me that such a violent person can be squeamish of his own blood, but then all other thoughts are erased when Mac stumbles backward and crashes against one of the shelves. In less than a second I'm rushing down to him, tears clouding my vision, but a long arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back before I can descend the first step. The deep masculine scent tells me that Flack has arrived, and is making it his mission to carry me off to safety.

"Flack, no!" I cry, struggling against him, "Mac's hurt!"

"I'll get him," he replies, shoving me roughly into the arms of a patrol officer whose name I don't know, "Stella, you stay _here_." He meets the officer's eyes. "Keep an eye on her, or it's your head. Get me?"

The man nods brusquely and then Flack is off, followed quickly by Angell and Danny. I'm trying to calm my breathing when Hawkes appears in front of me, taking my hands and unabashedly checking for any injuries. To my knowledge, I don't have any. Unless I drop dead of a panic attack in the next five minutes, I have every reason to believe that I'm fine.

Lindsay is on my right, asking questions that I can't seem to understand right now and telling the other officers about the body in the greenhouse. She's telling them to check for a man named Gino, who may be injured. My breath catches and my knees buckle beneath me as I watch the paramedics rush in, all my thoughts drowned out by the crushing sea of people around me. I smell Hawkes' slightly sweet cologne of all things, and it doesn't help at all to feel his grip around my shoulders. It's all too much, and the last thing I hear is Lindsay's anxious voice in my ear before the rest of the world blanks out and disappears completely.

**A/N: Awful place to end it, right? Gosh. lol Oh, and the title for this chapter is a song by Paul McCartney from The Fireman album.**


	29. I'll Find You

**Author's (Final) Note:**

**Sigh... here we are. The end. I can only hope you've all enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Thank you all for following this little tale and leaving such wonderful feedback on my work. I've greatly appreciated it. **

**Many, many thanks to Lily Moonlight: Without you, this would have never been finished, and even if it had it wouldn't have been very good. You're asbolutely irreplaceable and I have no idea what I would do without you reading over my shoulder. ;)**

**Without further adieu....**

**Epilogue**

"**I'll Find You"**

"Detective Bonasera, do you have anything to add?"

The air is cold and still around me, and my brain is caught up visualizing what's going to happen to my life if the next few minutes go terribly wrong. I'm so wrapped up that it takes me a few seconds to realize that I've been spoken to.

"Detective?" he asks again. "Anything to add?"

"No, sir," I reply absently, "Nothing."

He nods his head and scowls with a ferocity I've never seen, and then he and the other five people at the table turn away from the microphones and begin to converse. The room stills expectantly while they speak, and it feels like every second is another year off my life expectancy. My blood pressure gets a little higher when they all start to nod their heads, and one sour looking woman at the end of the table scribbles something down and hands it off. I watch in terror as the message is passed down the table to the man in front of the microphone. My entire world depends on that tiny piece of scrap paper, and I'm left to watch it as though I'm being handed my death sentence.

The man takes a moment to read it, frowns, and then clears his throat loudly enough for the entire room to hear even without the microphone. A strong hand finds mine and squeezes it, but I'm immune to this attempt at consolation. Right now, my universe is frozen solid. Nothing can stir me. Even the next breath I take is going to depend entirely upon what Internal Affairs has to say in the next few moments.

"It is the finding of this board that the death of Raphael Benevuto was accidental and therefore no fault of Detective Stella Bonasera," the small, balding man reads stoically, seemingly detached from the idea that these few words have given me my life back. I hear a gavel bluntly strike its target, and then the din of the courtroom commences. I can hardly believe it, but the words are hanging in the air for the entire world to hear.

I'm free.

A series of hands find mine, shaking them, and I hear congratulations from dozens of voices that I couldn't recognize right now if I tried. I smile and nod robotically, my brain still processing this new-found relief. Of course I'd known all along that Raphael's death had been accidental—a total fluke that shocks me even now—but that didn't mean I couldn't have been held responsible. That didn't stop IAB from questioning me.

_It's over._

I think the words with a sigh and find myself smiling a little more freely as the minutes slip by. Reality is seeping in the cracks, giving me the liberty to believe that I've really been cleared. Lindsay is quick to offer a hug, as are Hawkes and Danny. Jess embraces me and whispers congratulations in my ear. Adam offers a deep blush and a quick kiss on my cheek, followed swiftly by something that looked like a bow and a string of curses under his breath. Jess and I laugh and watch him retreat awkwardly back to the lab, where he's far more comfortable.

Finally, when I think I've been approached by almost everyone in the precinct, a large hand rests against my back and leads me away from the crowd. I go willingly, allowing myself to be guided out of the courtroom and into the circus of reporters that are waiting outside the courthouse steps. Questions are barked at me in rapid-fire and I ignore them, my companion promising a press release later that day. Of course, none of that matters. They're going to follow me to my car, and I'm most likely going to come home to a million messages on my answering machine.

The sudden death of one of the Mafia princes is no small bit of news, and I can't deny my part in it. I'm lucky enough to have shielded the most part of the story from the rabid reporters on my trail, but what's been exposed is bad enough. Stella Bonasera, undercover detective, solved a string of murders that led back to one of the most powerful crime families in the history of New York City. I can only imagine the headlines that are going to appear over the next few days… if I have any luck at all, I won't see any of them.

In addition to Raphael's death, Kevin La Salle has flipped on the family. He was released from Bellevue two days ago and is now giving us everything we need to have the Benevutos put out of business permanently. After all, who needs loyalty when you can have a plea bargain?

I force myself out of my thoughts just in time to crawl into the passenger's seat of a nondescript black sedan with tinted windows; the perfect getaway car. Camera lights are still exploding around me, giving me a monstrous headache, but then the engine starts and we start to pull away from the curb. A few ambitious rookies dare to run after us for a little while, but even they fall to the wayside after a few blocks. I exhale loudly, suddenly exhausted, and I'm met with bright blue eyes that look suspiciously concerned.

"Where to, your majesty?" he asks playfully.

"Home, Don," I reply, staring out the window. "I just want to go home."

"You sure?"

Am I? I've barely been home in the last two weeks, since Raphael's body was carried out of the greenhouse. The nightmares have kept me awake, and missing Mac has taken up even more of my time. I think about my apartment; I think about the silence and of the red stains I can't seem to get out of the upholstery. Already my mouth is dry, and I'm not even through considering my choices when Flack answers for me.

"That's a no, then," he replies. "Are you hungry? I haven't seen you eat yet today."

"I had coffee."

"Which is kind of like eating, but different," he says sarcastically and I give him a weak laugh. "Come on, Stella. Make me happy, here. One good, solid meal. Then I swear I'll leave you alone."

"Liar," I accuse, but I'm smiling.

"Until next time, anyway," he says with a wink.

"Go on, then," I instruct. "I'll go wherever you lead me."

"That's got to be a first," he smirks and I roll my eyes at him.

My eyes retreat to the window, taking solace in the way that everything appears to be the same. Flack turns on the radio and it gives me a temporary outlet, the lyrics of an old Jim Croce song effectively taking me out of the present.

-----

**Two Weeks Before**

_I wake up in the back of an ambulance, dizzy and disoriented. The earth seems to be shifting unsteadily beneath me, taking my uneasy stomach right along with it, and the wail of sirens cuts into my thoughts. I feel a slight pressure in my hand as the bumps of the road rouse me back into consciousness. People are talking around me, and one familiar voice stands out from all the others._

"_Sheldon?" I ask tentatively, opening my eyes to the excruciatingly bright light. _

"_Yeah, I'm here," he replies and pushes my hair out of my face. The touch is firm but gentle, but it does nothing to comfort me. _

"_Where am I?" I groan, suddenly feeling nauseous. "What happened?"_

"_We got you out of there," he says. "Lindsay's fine, too."_

"_What?" I take a deep breath, but it only upsets me more. I'm lost. "What's going on?"_

"_Calm down," he says, "What can I do?"_

"_What happened?" I ask, starting to panic as my memory catches up with me. The sound of a gunshot echoes brutally in my ear and then my heart is racing, throwing me back into the middle of everything._

"_Mac!" I cry suddenly, sitting up on the gurney. "Mac's hurt!"_

"_Stella, calm down," Hawkes instructs, taking a firm grasp on my shoulders. "He's on his way to the hospital right now, the same as you."_

"_He is?" I ask frantically. "Take me to him. I have to be there."_

"_The only thing you have to do right now is breathe," he tells me frankly. "You had a panic attack and passed out."_

"_A panic attack?" I ask, confused. "I don't have panic attacks."_

"_It's totally understandable considering the circumstances," he says gently, doing his best to offer comfort to someone who won't be comforted no matter what he says. _

"_What about Mac?" I beg of him, his calm brown eyes meeting my frantic green ones. "Is he okay?"_

"_As far as we can tell, the bullet only grazed his rib cage," he says calmly, but it doesn't take a cop to know he's holding something back._

"_And?" I press, all at once terrified of the answer._

"_He's sustained some pretty serious injuries, Stella," he replies candidly. "He has a severe concussion, and what feels like three cracked ribs. A dislocated shoulder, on top of that. We'll know more once we can get him through an X-Ray and an MRI."_

"_But he'll be fine," I insist, "Won't he?"_

"_Head injuries are difficult to predict," he says reluctantly. _

"_Hawkes," I cry incredulously, "Tell me he's fine!"_

_He clenches his jaw._

"_He's fine," he says, placating me, but neither of us seems to know how true that statement may or may not be. I lean back on the gurney, and try to force my breathing back to normal. I should have known it wouldn't work. It doesn't take me long to slip into unconsciousness again. _

**-----**

It seems likely barely a second before Flack's car pulls up to the curb and stops, rousing me out of memories that are better left alone. I don't remember the drive, but I suppose I wouldn't. I surprise myself when I realize that I'm looking forward to the dinner, simply because it's a distraction. For the moment, the last thing I want is to be left to my thoughts.

Dinner is magnificent.

Flack had the foresight to take me to an upscale restaurant that wouldn't allow reporters to bother their guests, for which I'm forever grateful. The rest of the team joins us a few minutes after we arrive, and they're quick to toast my apparent release with red wine that's probably way out of any of our price ranges. We all smile and laugh and I realize for the millionth time in the last two weeks that I'm the luckiest woman in the world to have them in my life. Lindsay, Jess and I discuss wedding plans—Jess seems particular interested, which interests me—and I offer what futile advice I can. The guys are discussing something which, for them, means arguing loudly and disrupting the rest of the restaurant.

The sun sets quickly when you're too wrapped up in your company to notice, and before long the city's night lights have come alive. Hawkes leaves first, claiming exhaustion, and then Flack and Angell leave under a similar pretense. I hug each of them as they go, thanking them profusely. A few minutes later Danny starts to yawn, and Lindsay mentions leaving. She asks Danny to go get the car while she says goodbye, and of course he agrees. He offers me a fierce hug and words of encouragement that make me feel like I had the entire world behind me. Danny could be like that, I think to myself. Having his support is like having an army behind you.

Once he's far enough away from the table Lindsay turns to me and covers my hand with her own.

"How are you holding up?" she asks in a whisper, her dark eyes compassionate.

I shrug. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"That doesn't answer the question, Stella," she says sternly. "You're the eternal optimist, remember? You have to know this wasn't your fault."

"Logically, of course I know that," I reply honestly, "But that doesn't mean it feels like it."

"There was nothing more you could have done for him," she tells me earnestly, squeezing my hand. "Please tell me you know that. This was _not _your fault. These things just happen."

"That's such a passive way of dealing with things," I say bitterly, fighting the tears building up behind my eyelids.

"Would you rather dwell over it for the rest of your life?" she asks pointedly and I grimace, thinking that I probably will.

"I'll manage," I say with some finality, swirling the dark Merlot in my glass before taking a sip. Lately, I've lost my taste for it. "The last few times I went to see him he was still unconscious. Then… then, he was just gone. Checked out of the hospital, without another word. I actually went to see him that morning, but the IAB guys picked me up on my way in." I give a bitter laugh. "I should have taken it philosophically."

"Maybe he just needed some time to get back on his feet," she insists.

"A week is a long time, though, Lindsay. Especially when it's someone you care about." I look up at her with a sad smile. "He must have really wanted to avoid seeing me."

"You can't believe that," she laments, heartbroken for me, but all I can do is cast my eyes down at my hands.

I've called Colonel Brand every day this week, and he's reported that Mac is quickly improving. He's not back at work yet, but he will be in another week or so. The man must have heard by now that I've been calling—scared out of my mind for him—but never once has Mac left a message in return for me. It's excruciating to lose him like this, without warning. Every time I hang up the phone, another part of me fractures and falls away.

"Mac's involvement in this case was mostly outside the call of duty," Lindsay responds, bringing me out of my head, "Outside of vague statements about inter-agency cooperation, anything he contributed could have lost both your jobs. I'm convinced that he's just trying to protect you."

"I don't need his protection," I groan, frustrated, "I need _him_. Here, with me."

"I know you do," she says gently and squeezes my hand. "He'll be back, I know it. Once he feels like it's safe."

"It would have been safe days ago," I say dejectedly, every word viciously cutting my lips like glass as they pass over them. "It's over, done with. _I'm_ done with it. I can't spend my life waiting to see if he'll turn back up."

"Don't give up," she pleads as she stands up from the table and gathers her things.

"Too late," I murmur, "Part of me gave up days ago." She replies with a half-hearted smile before turning and leaving me at the table, alone.

-----

_I wake up to the sound of a heart monitor, beeping steadily. Since I can feel the IV in my right forearm, I'm left to assume that it's my heart they're monitoring. I tentatively blink a few times, clearing my throat. My mouth is drier than the desert at high noon, but it only takes a few seconds to come to the conclusion that thirst is the least of my worries. My mind stumbles upon the memory of Kevin La Salle's gun aiming at Stella, and within seconds the beeping a few feet away starts to speed up. _

_Was she hurt? I look around, and find no one who could answer the question for me. I remember pulling my own trigger in defense, but nothing after that comes to the surface. As hard as I'm trying, nothing happens. It's all a blank._

"_Careful, now," I hear a voice tell me. "You'll tear those stitches right out."_

_My eyes stumble on an elderly nurse with cocoa-colored skin and wiry gray hair that's tucked into a bun on the nape of her neck. Her body is tiny and unimposing, but her voice holds authority. She's standing in the doorway of my room, staring at me with calm eyes that look black and perfectly serene in the near-absence of light. _

"_Where am I?"_

"_Mt. Sinai," she answers, "You had us worried for a few days now."_

"_Days?" I ask incredulously. "I've been here for days?"_

"_Three to be exact," she says. "Not counting the night they brought you in."_

"_Three days…" I murmur distractedly, trying to account for the time I know I'll never get back. "What happened?"_

"_To you?" she asks pointedly, "Concussion, cracked ribs, messed-up shoulder and a gunshot wound." She walks a little farther into the room, stopping at the food of the bed. "Between you and me, I would hate to see the other guy if you look like this and still made it out alive."_

"_Did a woman come in with me?" I ask, "Stella Bonasera. She's NYPD."_

"_Oh, Stella came in alright," she replies with a smirk. "I don't think she's slept in three days, waiting for you to wake up."_

"_She's here?"_

"_No, not this minute," she replies thoughtfully. "I could have sworn I saw her this morning, but two men came and pulled her aside before she could come in."_

_The beeping on my monitor speeds up again._

"_Two men? Who were they?"_

"_They were from some group called Internal Affairs, if I remember correctly," she said, concentrating. "They'd come in once or twice before, looking for her. It took them a while to catch up with her, but they finally did." She scoffs. "Unlucky, too. She's going to lose her ever-loving mind when I tell her you're awake."_

_I'm too caught up contemplating the idea of Internal Affairs going after Stella to realize what's she's said, but once the words sink in I look up at her and shake my head._

"_No," I tell her adamantly. "You can't tell her I'm awake."_

_She narrows her eyes at me._

"_Excuse me?" she asks pointedly. "The woman's been by that bed for the last three days without fail. And you want me to lie to her?"_

"_Please," I say, "It's important."_

"_How important are we talking here?"_

"_Very," I promise her emphatically, "The men who were talking to her—Internal Affairs—can take away her job if they find out we're involved." I lower my voice. "She could be convicted of something she didn't do. Understand?"_

_She takes a moment to mull over the information, grimacing, before she finally nods. _

"_Got it," she says firmly, "No phone call."_

"_Thank you," I sigh. "So am I going to die if I get out of here early?"_

"_Die? No," she says. "Hurt? Damn straight."_

"_Pain I can deal with," I mutter and she scoffs. _

"_We'll see about that, sugar," she warns. "Hell hath no fury, remember?" She cuts her eyes at me. "Stella's not going to think too kindly about being ditched, you hear me? And between you and me, she deserves better."_

"_You're right. She does," I reply. "That's why I have to disappear."_

_She sighs and shakes her head. I hear her mutter something about men and then she's turned to walk out the room, leaving me panting in my bed and wondering how I'm going to successfully stay in the shadows long enough to keep Stella out of harm's way. Stella has an entire case for the NYPD to back her up… if the IAB finds out that she went rogue to help me in my revenge mission, she'll lose everything. Her job, her life. When it comes right down to it, I can't do that to her. I won't. _

_It takes me half an hour to rip out my IV and get dressed, but then I'm gone._

-----

The crowd in the restaurant has begun to thin, and the bus boys are sluggishly cleaning up the tables around me. I take another sip from my glass and reach for the bill that was placed on the table over an hour ago, when the staff still had hopes of getting us out of here at a reasonable time. I'd insisted on paying for the meal myself, and I'm almost afraid to open the tiny book and see the damage. Fortunately for me, I'm interrupted before I get to the big event.

"Oh, I've already taken care of that," a voice says from behind me and I turn, my eyes widening as I watch a man I think is Gino Benevuto approach the table. No, I think again. It couldn't be. Could it? I blink a couple times but my initial impression was correct: the suave man approaching me is, in fact, crazy Uncle Gino.

His usually frizzy white hair has been combed neatly and slicked back, making his thin face look even leaner. Not surprisingly, the effect is impressive. His suit is the deepest black and very obviously tailored to fit its owner; even his glasses are different. The gawky black frames he favored the last time I saw him have been replaced for slimmer, stylish ones with a slight tint to them. Even the red handkerchief in his lapel looks like fine silk.

"Look at you," I say, honestly surprised. "You look… great."

"Thank you, dear," he replies before kissing both my cheeks. "Of course you look amazing, but that's a given with Mediterranean women."

I smile and watch as he pulls up a chair next to me, facing me with an interesting grin. The eccentric older man I'd known a few weeks ago is seemingly gone, replaced with this dashing and debonair doppelganger. I study him just as intently as he studies me, wondering where the old Gino managed to sneak off to.

"I'm glad to know you're okay," I say finally, and the words are absolutely true. I'd agonized for days about what had happened to him, but when I read his statements in Flack's report I assumed he was fine. Judging from the man in front of me, Gino has been more than fine.

"I've still got plenty of tricks up these old sleeves of mine," he replies with a self-effacing smirk. Then his expression turns serious, and I start to wonder why he's really here. "I've been watching the news lately. Looks like you're off the hook."

I nod.

"Yeah, I am," I tell him. "Raphael's death was ruled accidental."

"Huh," he says unconvincingly. "There you have it."

"It _was_ accidental," I say tentatively, "The glass falling was a complete coincidence. Bad timing." Gino just stares at me. "Right?"

"You know, Stella," he starts, "I've always found that the people closest to you are more likely to cause damage to you than the shifty-eyed stranger next to you. So, as much as I love my family, I've always made sure to have… options."

"Options?" I ask, "What does that mean?"

"Underground tunnels, secret passageways inside the house," he says and catches my eye, "Booby traps."

"Oh, my God."

"It's amazing what one little pressure trigger can do. If you know how to use it, that is," he adds solemnly with a wink. My stomach has plummeted, of course, and I'm staring at the man in front of me like I've never seen him before. As far as I know, I haven't. This isn't the sweet little man who gave me flowers straight from his garden at the dinner table—this man was… someone else. Someone else entirely.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about that," he says jovially as though he hadn't just confessed to the brutal murder of his own nephew. "You just let Uncle Gino do all the worrying."

"You can't be serious," I reply nervously, leaning forward and whispering so that no one at a surrounding table could overhear this particularly gruesome conversation. "He was your nephew, Gino. You couldn't just kill him." I pause. "Could you?"

"Raphael was a monster," he replies heatedly, "The whole family knew it, his father and brother included. But his mother coddled him, and no one would do anything about it. He tortured people just for the hell of it and that's not right, no matter what your family history looks like."

"Oh, my _God_."

"It had to be done, Stella," he tells me solemnly. "You know it did! Better than anyone, you know it did." He leans in closer. "You saw what he did to those people."

"We could have put him in prison!" I whisper savagely. "We could have put him away, where he couldn't have hurt anyone."

"He would have gotten out eventually," he shrugged, "Prison has never been able to hold the members of this family. There's always a loophole, waiting to be found. Even if you did manage to keep him inside, he would be coddled and protected even more. The family has many connections, even inside the system." He sighs. "No. This was the only way."

"I can't believe…" I trail off, "You, Gino? How could it be you?"

He smiled enigmatically.

"Raphael probably told you I was an accountant," he says and I nod my head in return. "Well, to tell you the truth, the only numbers I crunched was my body count."

I stare, mouth open and eyes wide, and I have absolutely no idea what to do. Should I arrest him? He just confessed to other murders, including the murder of his own nephew! But Raphael's death has already been ruled accidental and I don't exactly have a death list with which to consult his claims. It takes me only a few more moments to realize that my word against his isn't going to stand up in court or anywhere else, and he gives me a faintly amused expression.

"You just forget about all of that," he says gently, patting my hand, "It's none of your concern now. You have a life to get back to, remember? You should enjoy it."

"Yeah," I reply absently and stare helplessly as he stands up from the table. He presses a chaste kiss to my forehead and stares down at me.

"You take care of yourself, Miss Stella," he instructs pointedly. "If anyone gives you trouble—anyone at all—you come get me and I'll take care of it."

I barely have the presence of mind to nod my assent before he walks away, heading for the door. His movements are strong and confident, and completely unlike the jittery amateur magician and gardener that I met over a month ago. The transformation between the two men is remarkable, but then again I suppose it's easier to act eccentric than it is to act normally. For him, anyway. I'm left to wonder just how much his family knows about his "oddity," but I have a feeling it isn't much. Men like Gino can blend in anywhere, and can make anyone believe whatever he wants them to. The thought is terrifying, even when it's him. Maybe especially because it's him.

He crosses the space of the restaurant quickly, and then he's gone from sight. The host regards him with some anxiety, so I'm left to assume that this isn't Uncle Gino's first visit. I find myself laughing after a few moments, amazed. The laughter is mostly a nervous reflex—hysteria because I'm watching helplessly as a murderer walks casually away from me. Of course I have no proof other than a seemingly peculiar old man's word, but only a fool would doubt Gino at this point.

I can honestly say I didn't see that one coming.

-----

All the stress from the last two weeks has accumulated right behind my eyes by the time I get home, and I overpay the cab driver as I climb out and head for my apartment building. The headache swiftly gaining ferocity is a combination of unbearable stress and expensive wine, but it won't last long. There's a bottle of pain reliever in my bathroom cabinet with my name on it, and I have every intention of taking two and crawling into bed.

Now that the IAB decision is out of the way, tomorrow my life goes back to normal. Tomorrow I'll have crime scenes and paperwork to deal with, and everything that's happened in the last few weeks will be behind me. It doesn't help that I've fantasized for weeks about all this ending, and now that it has I'm miserable without the one person who gave it all meaning. Mac's gone back to his life, and I'm left to mine. I should be grateful, I know, because my life has been returned to me. It may not be in one piece, but at least I know it's completely mine.

At last.

The thought is no small comfort as I suffer through the seemingly endless elevator ride to my floor, and drag my tired body down the hallway and up to my front door. The key feels like it weighs a ton, but I manage to fit it into the lock and turn the damned thing far enough for the tumblers to slide back and let me in. I throw my bag and keys down with a thud, and my badge and gun are next to go. I lock them up in a drawer and it's not until I'm kicking my shoes off that I realize the difference in the air.

It's wrong somehow, I think. It has to be. Suddenly all the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end and the last thing on my mind is sleep. My ears are straining to pick up any hint of sound, but there isn't one. Complete silence. My first thought is the most irrational one—Raphael—but I'm quick to throw that one out, simply because I don't think I could take the shock of wandering into my kitchen and seeing him standing there. As comforting as it is to know that it wouldn't be Raphael who's standing in my kitchen, I know that I'm not entirely off the hook. Someone is definitely there.

I consider reaching for my gun, but then the person clears their throat and I know exactly who it is. _No_, I think. _It can't be. _My heart seizes in my chest and I rush around the corner, a single glance confirming my suspicions.

Mac is leaning against my kitchen counter, in complete Marine dress uniform. He's holding his white hat in his hands and looking directly at me, his eyes locked on mine. Part of me is thanking God for the fact that he's alive, but the scorned woman in me is cursing him with every breath. I run through millions of possible responses for this situation, ranging from "Take me, I'm yours," to "Get the hell out of here before I find my gun." Fortunately for both of us, neither of those comments are what leaves my lips.

"I thought you said you wouldn't break in anymore," I observe, squaring my shoulders and trying to pretend that I'm as strong now as I used to be.

In typical Mac fashion, he only smiles.

"If I remember correctly, I said that was barring unforeseen circumstances," he replies simply. I clear my throat, suddenly more nervous than I should be. I feel his eyes boring into me and it takes almost all my concentration to ignore the sensation of being read like a well-worn book.

"I visited Amy last week," I say suddenly, swiftly changing the subject to something safe. He nods, his eyes finally shifting downward.

"We buried Nate this morning," he admits, brushing something from the brim of his hat. "He was given full military honors."

"I'm glad," I say honestly and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that this dry dialogue is a prelude. I feel my chest constrict and I feel my eyes burn, but there will be plenty of time for tears later. I need to get this newest heartbreak out of the way before I have time to grieve its loss.

"I'm sorry I haven't been here," he says dryly and I'm not entire convinced that he means it. His eyes are still on his hat, rather than on me.

"You couldn't have been that sorry," I say, obviously hurt, "You weren't here." My voice raises an octave, and it's not hard to hear the strain. "I didn't even get the courtesy of a phone call or a message. I didn't even get to know if you were still alive, for Christ's sake." I stare at him, hard. "That doesn't strike me as sorry."

"It wasn't that simple," he fires back, and this time I hear the emotion in his voice. "I couldn't be here! You would have lost _everything_."

"That should have been my choice," I reply heatedly. "Not yours."

"I wasn't involved with Raphael out of duty, Stella!" he says emphatically. "I was there to _murder _him. If anyone had paid more attention what was going on outside that greenhouse, they would have figured that out and you would have been charged as an accomplice." He narrows his eyes. "I couldn't have been responsible for that. You have to understand that I did what I thought was best."

"But I wasn't guilty of anything!" I cry incredulously. "I did nothing wrong. I had nothing to lose, except for you." I clear my throat. "And it's looking to me like I already have."

He says nothing, but keeps his eyes on mine. They're unreadable and for once I don't mind not knowing what he's thinking.

"Take care of yourself, Mac," I say, my voice breaking under the strain of the words. "I guess I'll see you around."

His mouth presses into a grim line and my resolve breaks, allowing a few tears to roll down my cheeks. This is it, I think to myself. _Goodbye._ It hurts like hell. I start to turn away, planning on crawling into my bed and crying myself to sleep, when his voice cuts into the otherwise still air.

"Don't you want to know the unforeseen circumstances?" he asks and I scoff.

"What?" I ask sarcastically, "You like my coffee better?"

He ignores the jab and sets his hat down on the counter. Walking slowly toward me, he takes a deep breath and reaches up to push a strand of hair out of my face.

"All this time I've stayed away because I thought I could protect you, but I never expected to miss you this much," he says softly, sending chills ripping mercilessly up my spine. "The last two weeks have been hell. Every morning I wake up and reach for you before I realize that you're not there."

"Did you want me to be?" I ask cautiously, internally begging him not to hurt me. Loving Mac Taylor has made a weak woman of me, and there's no telling when I'll be strong again.

"That's up to you, isn't it?" he returns solemnly. "Is that what you want?"

"I'm a pretty big risk right now," I warn casually, and it's the truth. If Mac's not careful, he'll be stuck with me forever.

"I've never met a risk more worth taking," he tells me, using the pad of his thumb to wipe away a few of my tears. I almost laugh from relief, but instead of fumbling for the wrong words I pull his lips down to mine and bring them crashing together. The fit is perfect, just like it always is. He greedily pulls my hips forward to meet his and I wonder how I ever could have lived without him. When he pulls away from me, his face his flushed and his breathing is labored.

"I want to stick around, Stella," he says earnestly, kissing my forehead. "If you'll have me."

I reply with another burning kiss.

"I think I can work something out."

**THE END**


End file.
